


Inspector Javert and the Empire of Death

by Esteliel



Series: Life After the Seine [1]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, Captivity, Case Fic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kidnapping, M/M, Masturbation, Matter of Life and Death, Moral Dilemmas, Pining, Police Procedural, Romance, Self-Sacrifice, Shaving, Slow Build, UST, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 141,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1832, and in the aftermath of the failed uprising, Inspector Javert is about to commit suicide when he is rescued by Jean Valjean, the man he has wronged. While Javert heals and tries to find his place in a world where doubt and guilt have taken the place of everything he once believed in, he is plagued by his developing feelings for Valjean, and distracted by a series of murders. In the course of his investigations, the search for the man behind the crime soon becomes personal when it seems that Valjean and his family are threatened by the mysterious villain as well. Despite the distrust of his superiors, Javert might be the only one who can solve this crime, while at the same time Valjean seems to be just as much in need of a savior as Javert was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bells of Gehenna

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to indulge myself for quite some time with my own Seine-rescue fic - and this is it, together with my first ever attempt at casefic, inspired by a visit to the catacombs of Paris last year. :)
> 
> Thank you so much to MissM for the beta, you are the best. <3

_The darkness was complete. It was the sepulchral moment which follows midnight. A ceiling of clouds concealed the stars. Not a single light burned in the houses of the city; no one was passing; all of the streets and quays which could be seen were deserted; Notre-Dame and the towers of the Court-House seemed features of the night. A street lantern reddened the margin of the quay. The outlines of the bridges lay shapeless in the mist one behind the other. Recent rains had swollen the river._

~

Javert watched the river flow past. The torrent of doubt that had writhed within him had quieted when he had turned away from the river earlier; when he finally laid down the pen and left the letter in the station-house, it had fallen silent.

He took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the quay. When he gazed again into the darkness of the roaring water beneath, he thought of how the inquiries into the events of the past day would lack his report on the insurgents – although they were now most probably all dead, so he supposed it would not matter – of how Henry would need to take over inquiries into the body that had been found in an alley near the Marché des Innocents, of how his landlord would have to empty his rooms of what little belongings he had amassed.

These were mundane thoughts, and a minute of staring into the black chasm beneath him wiped them from his mind once more. No, there was little use in worrying about such things when now he had cross-questioned himself and come to the conclusion that he, Javert, had been tried and found guilty; that the one Judge in this matter could not be trusted to sentence him to the penalty he so keenly felt he deserved; that in the absence of true judgment, it was up to him to deny the kinder sentence another man might accept: in short, that it was time to hand in his resignation, to deny this superior who in turn had denied him the clear path that he had sought to walk all of his life.

There were still two paths before him that he could see: one that led left to the station-house, one that led right to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. But now, for the first time in his life, Javert abandoned the paths. Where they refused to go straight, he would have to make his own way forward.

He stepped onto the parapet. Below him hissed and groaned the abyss. He could not help but think of the fall: just one moment of weightlessness, then the impact of the cold water, and the violent current that would tear him away. Darkness rushed past the quays, an endless roar rising from the maelstrom; there waited an infinity that now opened its maw and would swallow him, and then--

“Javert!”

At the sound of the voice that was calling his name, Javert began to laugh; it was a terrible, rusty sound devoid of all humor.

Of course.

“Jean Valjean. What do you want?” He did not turn to face the man who had torn all certainty from him and left nothing but the call of the darkness below. The wind drowned his words; he did not care, he told himself, what did it matter. There was no need for conversation now; the things that needed to be said had been left in the station-house, carefully addressed to Monsieur le Préfet Henri Gisquet.

“Please, Javert, come down!”

Again that damned voice. Javert stood on the parapet, silent and still, and felt within him once more the agony of a living, beating heart that had learned too late the truth that damned him now. Had Valjean come to gloat?

No, he told himself as he listened to the water's roar. No, Valjean had released him; Valjean had not wanted his death. But what else could he want?

There was a hand now. It was gentle, and yet the touch was nearly unbearable as it wrapped around his wrist with the heaviness of iron. Javert felt a tremor run through him at the thought that Valjean might desire to leash him to life as punishment. But that was impossible. There was no way to live with this agony of doubt tearing him apart with every heartbeat, with his mind forced to think, and, in doing so, suffer when for so long it had contended itself with following the straightforward path laid out for him by law and duty.

There were no words that would come to him. In the end, he went with what the man deserved: “You are free,” Javert said, and then, shaking his head at himself, “Go. Please.”

Perhaps it was that last word that sealed his decision. Had he sunk so far that he would plead with this man now? Would Javert, irreproachable servant of the state, now cling to life, and beg a convict for forgiveness, plead for clemency from a criminal? For that was what Valjean still was.

Yet even at that thought, there was a greater pain in his chest, and once more he heard that strange voice shout, “Here is your savior!” He knew the truth of these words. At the same time, he could not live with such a truth; or rather, could not continue to be Javert in a world were such a truth existed, and since he knew nothing else but to be Javert, it seemed only right that Javert should end here, and with him the doubt and the agony of thought that was eating him alive from the inside.

“Javert! Please, step down and let us talk!” Valjean's voice held a hint of surprise, and a great amount of weariness. Again Javert thought of how the man had struggled beneath the weight of the corpse he had dragged from the sewers; how he had looked in the carriage, his face ghostly pale with exhaustion.

No: even Valjean, with his immense strength, would not be able to stop him. Fearing that the man would open his mouth again and speak ridiculous words of kindness or mercy, when the terrible truth Javert had come to understand was that he could not exist in such a world, he took that final step forward. The suddenness of it and the force of his weight was enough that his arm slipped out of Jean Valjean’s grasp, so that Javert’s final expression was a satisfied smile at having eluded this man who had eluded him for so long.

The water was very cold. The current closed its maw around him with a loud roar, and he was swallowed, dragged into the bowels of the river, tossed and turned and buffered about, pulled back and forth while he was blind and deaf and unable to think. He needed to breathe; his lungs screamed for air; there was nothing but dark, rushing water all around him. He did not even know where up and down was; and what did it matter, he thought, a stone in his chest where another had a heart, which now at least served to pull him down to where he belonged, what did it matter when his fate was already decided. He opened his mouth to breathe in the air that did not exist – and that was when he felt it. There was the impossible, strong grip of a hand closing around his wrist, and he struggled sluggishly when it seemed to him that that superior had sent some immense, fearsome angel to drag him upwards to the light, to face that heavenly mercy he had sought to escape.

_#_

He woke to the roar of the water still in his ears, his lungs aching as though he had breathed in fire instead of water. For a moment, he was too afraid to open his eyes, scared at last of the abyss into which he had so thoughtlessly flung himself. Where could his soul have awoken now but in the fires of Hell?

Then there was a touch at his brow, the gentle press of cool fingers, and he became aware of warmth against him. For long moments, he could do nothing but wheeze for air, and when at last he had managed to expel what water had remained in his burning lungs, his strength left him again, and he felt himself pulled against a warm chest once more.

“Javert,” a voice said, “Javert,” and he knew that voice well and wanted to laugh, for that voice did not belong in Gehenna. Something warm was wrapped around him. Almost, he thought that he felt the swaying of a carriage, and the sound of hoofbeats on the rough plaster of Paris. How strange that death should bring him such visions. Then his head sank forward, rested against a warm, smooth plane beneath which he could hear a familiar drum – or no, the tolling of a bell. Had they the bells of Notre-Dame in Hell? No, he then thought as he was dragged under by the dark waves once more. No, this was no bell. This was the heartbeat of Hell. How strange. It was not so frightening after all...

_#_

“Javert?”

There was that voice again. Would it never cease to hound him?

Javert groaned before he even opened his eyes; his body ached, and breathing _hurt_ , as though his chest had been bludgeoned with hammers. He took another shallow breath – a band of hot, red iron seemed to constrict around him, and he opened his eyes with great difficulty.

“Are you awake?”

That was Jean Valjean. Javert frowned. Something seemed strange about the thought of looking up at Jean Valjean, but he was too exhausted and in too much pain to be able to follow that idea. And had that man not haunted him for most of his life? Perhaps it was no wonder he would be here – but where was _here_?

Light fell in through a window. He was in a bed. There was Jean Valjean, pale and weary and exhausted, in a chair next to his bed.

What a strange dream this was, Javert thought, and when Valjean took a small bottle from the bedside table and poured something onto a spoon, he accepted the concoction without protest. He hurt too much to talk, in any case. It was all he could do to breathe, for every breath he took came with red-hot pain, and it was impossible to find a position where he did not ache.

He coughed weakly; some of the liquid dripped down his chin, and he felt Valjean wipe it away.

How strange, he thought again, how very strange were his dreams today, and how strange that no one had ever told him that you would dream so much after death. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness, blessedly free from pain and strange visions of this saint who had followed him into Hell.

_#_

“Can you sit?”

Javert wanted to make a disgusted noise at the question, but when he tried to use his arms to push himself up, he found that they were too weak to hold him, and that his chest ached at the motion in a way that had become familiar – that band of burning iron constricting around him, stealing his breath. He did not make a sound, but Valjean was by his side anyway, as if that was the reaction he had anticipated, and carefully helped him up until Javert sat propped against the headboard with the help of several pillows.

“It will take time to heal,” Valjean said. “The doctor said you can have more laudanum in a while. Are you hungry?”

Javert did not speak for a moment. Everything hurt; he raised a hand to his forehead, vaguely surprised by how much of an effort this was. His skin was damp with sweat, and his fingers tried to curl into his whiskers with frustration in that old, familiar motion that was as natural as breathing – but breathing hurt now, in a way it had never hurt before, and his arms lacked the strength he had once taken for granted, so that he had to lower his hand with a soft, exhausted groan. His eyes slid towards the bottle on the bedside table. He remembered the taste of the tincture on his tongue, the cloying, blessedly pain-free sleep. He frowned as he tried to make sense of Valjean's words.

He remembered the laudanum. The doctor – did he remember a doctor? He was not certain. He was not certain of anything, he thought, and then looked up at Valjean as a strange helplessness filled him. It was very hard to think, but something was not right.

“Your ribs are hurt. The doctor said you might even have broken one. You cannot move, Javert, not until you have had time to heal. Do you understand?”

Javert blinked tiredly. Yes. That made sense. Injury. It was a common occasion in the life of a policeman, after all, and they had sent him to the barricade; he had expected injury or worse when he had hid among the students--

“The river,” he said suddenly, and then laughed, an ugly, croaking sound that did not last for more than a second before a burning pain in his chest made him stop. He bent over as much as he could, wheezing and coughing until his eyes filled with tears, and strong arms pushed him gently back against the pillows. When he opened his streaming eyes, Valjean was very close, looking at him with a worry that made something within him tighten even more until it seemed that his aching ribs were clenching around the hard and heavy stone that had come to fill his chest. Again he thought of how he had fallen and had been carried away by the current, and how this rock in his chest would have dragged him down – down where he belonged.

“Why.” Javert tried to breathe around this heaviness within him, but he found he could not. If he exhaled, his ribs ached with hot pain; if he tried to inhale, the cold rock in his chest expanded so that he could not fill his lungs with air, and he grabbed helplessly at the sheets and shook his head as his eyes began to fill with new tears. “Why,” he said again, and realized at last what it was he was asking. “Why, why did you do this; why did you save me, why, why--”

If he had been able to breathe, he might have felt shame at the spectacle he was making of himself; now there was only the dizziness of the lack of air, the pain of his broken ribs and the panic at this thing lodged deep inside his chest, this heavy weight he had sought to drown, for it had seemed impossible to live with it. But live he did, although he had not wanted to, and he clawed at his chest, encountered bandages, and wept with an anguish that had come over him with the dark force of the waves that had swallowed him. Only when Valjean's arms took hold of him to press his arms down into the bed instead did he at last cease to struggle. Valjean's face was so close that he could not help but see the man's own anguish through his tears.

“Why,” Javert begged, even when more laudanum coated his tongue with a bitter sweetness. Valjean's hands were heavy and strangely reassuring around his wrists until the dark waves of dreamless sleep pulled him away once more.

_#_

Breathing was easier today. The bandages around his chest were tight and clean, and he could push himself up to sit without too much trouble. His eyes lingered on the bottle that stood so innocently on the bedside table. It was half empty, and his brows drew together as he tried to make sense of the days that must have passed. Had it been days? He could not remember very much. He thought he remembered a stranger's voice and hands prodding at him. Had that been the doctor?

He breathed in carefully. There was a soreness still lingering, and when he tried to lean forward a little, it turned to discomfort, so that he unhappily relaxed back into the pillows with a frustrated sound.

The window was closed, but the curtain was pulled back, and light fell in. He stared at the sliver of cloudy sky for a long moment, then raised a hand to his aching head. It was still hard to think, but with every passing minute, his thoughts became a little clearer, and he could recall a little more. He still remembered very little of what had happened after the river – but he did remember the river: the coldness of the water, that terrifying, inhuman strength of the rapids that had pulled at him and had tossed him about from here to there like a child's toy, or a small ship lost in a storm.

And was that not what he had been? Was that not what he still was? Far in the distance, he could still hear the roar of his conscience, that voice which was his own, and which had spoken its judgment. He should have died. The rapids at that part of the river, between the Quai de la Mégisserie and the Quai aux Fleurs, were notorious; how many bodies had been fished out of the river a little further down through the last year alone?

In frustration, he pulled on his whiskers, and then frowned when he felt the roughness of his face. How long had he slept? It felt as though he had not shaved in a week.

"Jean Valjean," he said aloud, and felt unsettled by the sound of his own voice: a hoarse, weak croak it was, as though he was little more than a ghost. He coughed once, weakly, before he settled back into the pillows again at the sharp pain this still brought about.

His rib was broken; so that memory was true. "Javert, you fool," he said, frowning still at the way his tongue was strangely heavy in his mouth, and his lips dry. He was thirsty, he realized after another moment of long deliberation, and, blinking tiredly, found that there was a glass on the bedside table, next to the bottle of laudanum, and a carafe of water, as well as a bowl and a cloth.

He rubbed wearily at his forehead again. Had Valjean washed him?

The thought was unsettling, and despite the heavy blanket that covered him, he shivered as he imagined himself at the man's mercy.

Then there was the sound of footsteps, and the door slowly opened to admit Jean Valjean, followed by an elderly woman. Javert silently ground his teeth at the sight of this man. _Here is your savior,_ that damned voice within him proclaimed once more, and viciously he thought back, _Here is the savior that was neither wanted nor needed. Here is the martyr who should have drowned himself in those sewers, for all the good he has done me!_

But when they looked at each other for the first time with full awareness since Javert had turned from him and let himself fall into the Seine, he said nothing of what was on his mind.

Valjean remained standing at the door, a smile slowly spreading over his face. The sight was so unusual and strangely terrifying for what it wrought within Javert that he remained silent even when Valjean came towards him.

"You are awake," Jean Valjean said, and Javert watched as he reached out to press his hand to his brow. For one long moment, they looked at each other. Javert still felt the dark maw of the irate waters of the Seine snapping at him, but Valjean's fingers were cool against his skin, and something about the touch felt strangely soothing, as though the sensation was a familiar one.

"No fever. Good," Valjean said, and the smile vanished as swiftly as it had come, so that Javert felt as though a cloud had moved in front of the sun, and shivered.

"Do you remember what happened? That you broke a rib?" Valjean pulled a chair close to sit by his side, and the woman who had followed him into the room came to take the basin and the wet cloth away.

"I will bring some soup, sir," she said. She spoke with a stammer, and did not look at him; Javert became aware once more of the cool air against his bare throat and tried to pull the blanket up.

"We will see if you can eat on your own. It would do you good to eat, Javert. You have slept for a long time." Valjean looked at him again. There was a heaviness in his gaze that seemed close to grief. The corpse of the boy he had dragged from the sewers, Javert thought suddenly. Valjean must have known him.

When the woman had left the room, Valjean helped to cover him with the blanket, and then stood to open the window wide and let in fresh air and the sounds of the streets.

"How long?" Javert asked and swallowed again. He tried to reach out for the glass of water, but found his hand trembling when he tried to lift it. Valjean returned to sit by his side and steady his hand, and although the cool water was a relief for his parched throat, Javert could not think of anything but how rough Valjean's hands were against his own, and how warm.

"What am I doing here, Valjean?" he asked more softly between gulps. "I remember... enough. The river."

Valjean remained silent until Javert had drunk his fill, and then helped him to return the glass to the table.

"I pulled you from the water, Javert. You were injured, and I did not know where you lived, so I brought you home."

Valjean closed his eyes for a moment, and a shadow passed over his face. When he looked at Javert again, the grief was more pronounced, and Javert wondered who that boy had been to cause such emotion. Valjean had not spoken of him when he had freed him at the barricade.

"I already gave you this address, so you need not fear that I will run, or that I would do you harm. You do not need to fear anything, do you understand? I am your prisoner still. I will come with you to the station-house when it is time. But first, you need to heal. Please let me know if there are letters you need me to send. It has been five days, Javert – I would have informed your superior, but--"

Now Valjean faltered, and despite his earlier insistence, Javert thought tiredly that there were a lot of things for him to fear. Here fate had granted him the chance to make up for that earlier aberration. Take this man, bring him before a judge; make it so that no one would ever know that moment of darkness that had taken hold of him, the guilt that had nearly swallowed him whole and made him abandon himself to the violence of the river...

Soundlessly, he began to laugh, then stopped when that still hurt. "My superior. Yes, yes, very good, Jean Valjean," he said. "Inform my superior! Ah, he will think me mad, and well he should! Let us not pretend that such a night never happened. I sought death; you took that away from me yet again. But before I returned to the quay, I had written a letter to the Préfet - for the good of the service, if you must know. Inform him, and have no fear; he will be quite convinced that I have gone mad, and would not believe a word I said about who you are even if I showed your scars."

At that moment, the woman returned. Valjean watched silently as she placed a bowl and a spoon on the bedside table, and then went out again. Neither of them spoke while she was in the room; once she was gone, Valjean reached out for the bowl, and then hesitated.

"Do you think you can manage?" he asked.

Javert made an ugly sound. "Will you just ignore what I said?"

"First you need to eat. Then... If you want, we can talk then. But there is not much to talk about. I will write letters, if you desire. Your superior; your landlord; whatever else you might wish."

Javert produced that horrible sound again that was as close to laughter as he could come without further injury to his ribs.

"You tell me I have nothing to fear from you? That is because you have already done the worst, Jean Valjean. You denied me the death that was mine at the barricade. You denied me again at the Seine. Thief! Yes, there; I shall say it again; we both know it is true! Thief! You stole my death when that was never your choice to make!"

There was rage within him all of a sudden; it had grown with his words until it had turned into a terrible ball of heat lodged there in his chest, where before the cold stone had sat. It burned within him now, and it was almost enough to combat the weakness of his limbs; almost, it was enough to make him contemplate the possibility of getting up and dressing and walking back all the way to the river, to drown himself in the very same spot in a fit of childish pique.

Instead, the exertion of those words was enough to make his hands tremble and the vision before him blur; his blood roared in his ears as loud as the river.

When he could see clearly again, he found himself pressed back into the cushions, a damp, cold cloth pressed to his brow, and Valjean so damnably close that he could see the lines around the man's eyes, the growth of white stubble on his chin, the way his lips paled as he pressed them together in worry.

Worry! Javert thought with a tinge of hysteria. This was still all wrong. Of all the men in the world, it was not Jean Valjean who should feel worry for him, and not Jean Valjean who should offer him a guest room and cool his brow, and write letters to his superior!

"Javert, this is where you are wrong. That was never your choice to make. Does not your life belong to God, the same way as mine? You may bring me to the station-house as soon as you can walk, but I tell you, do not think such a thing again. Your life is a gift you cannot reject; and if truly you are weary, then you must wait until such a time comes that God deems it right for it to end. It will come, Javert. I promise it will come, sooner than you have thought - much sooner than you have hoped.”

For a moment, Valjean fell still; Javert felt his hands tremble where they pressed the damp cloth to his brow. But then, after the moment had passed, Valjean continued as if nothing had happened.

"Will you give me your promise? You are a man of honor, I never doubted that."

"My promise? No," Javert said, and felt a petty satisfaction at the way Valjean's face twisted as though he had hurt him. "No, I will do no such thing. You have no right to make demands of me, Jean Valjean!"

Valjean returned the cloth to a wash basin, then dried his hands. For a long moment, he was silent; his gaze went towards the wall opposite of them, where now Javert saw a small copper crucifix hang, and Valjean looked at it for a long moment.

"I have that right, Javert. I purchased your life," he said at last, and when he looked at Javert once more, he had that look of a man who gazed at things beyond what can be seen in the here and now.

"You call me thief because I stole your life, but that is not right. I saved it twice, is that not true? Is not your life mine now? They gave it to me at the barricade; I spared you, but your life had been given into my keeping then. And at the river, you threw it away. Very well then, if you think this is a commodity you can abandon at will, some trinket you can throw into the water, then the fact that I dove into the water after you to pull out that trinket makes it mine. Is that not right?"

Javert found that he had no answer to that speech. He thrust his hand into his hair and pulled at the tangled strands with a sound of frustration, then curled his fingers into his whiskers, before he realized once more with a shudder of horror that he had not shaved for long days, and that to both Valjean as well as that woman servant, he must look monstrous: a beast, not unlike those he had been tasked to guard once.

"You annoy me!" he ground out at last, and Valjean gave him a small, careful smile.

"And so you have said before."

Javert snorted despite himself when the memory resurfaced. "How much you could have spared both of us had you shot me then," he said bitterly, and then, because he was tired and lost, and feeling unfairly abandoned by this world that had ceased to make sense: "Well, keep it then, if it pleases you; it makes no difference to me!"

Valjean gave him another grave look. "You will feel better once you have eaten," he said after a moment, and Javert - who still wanted to rage, or to grab Valjean's coat and pull him close and tell him that none of this, absolutely none of this, would change the fact that Javert had at last, and too late, realized that he had been wrong - could not bring himself to argue again.


	2. The Heavy Weight of a Life Wasted

Today, Javert was sitting in a chair by the window, wrapped in a blanket despite the sun outside, and feeling grateful for it. The weeks of immobility had left him easily exhausted and prone to feeling the cold bite at his bones with a viciousness he had never known before; but then, perhaps it was only right that the dog should get old and dream of the fireplace rather than the hunt, for the hunt had at last come to an end for Javert.

He was not yet quite certain what this life was that Jean Valjean had forced on him. Javert's ribs had begun to heal enough that he could make his way to the chair by the window, sit at the table for a meal, and use the chamber pot on his own, which was perhaps the greatest relief of all. He might have wished for death once, but the feeling of being dependent on Valjean for the smallest things was one that sat ill with him, and more than anything had him determined to heal well enough to leave.

And then? He could not say. On the bedside table sat two letters – one of them a note from his landlord that his rent was due, and no amount of gnashing his teeth had kept Valjean from paying his rent for him. Well, returning the money to him would be the first thing he did once he could leave this accursed house, Javert told himself. The other was a letter from his superior, notably cold, as all his writing had been. He would return to his post as soon as he was healed, Javert thought – but then, what good would that do? The commissaire was upset at what must have been M. Gisquet's reaction to his impertinence; M. Chabouillet himself had written to Javert to express his censure, reminding him that he had better concentrate on his work and not importune the Prefect again. As Javert had been a most diligent and eager agent of the police for a very long time, M. Chabouillet had apologized in his name to the Prefect, and cited the injuries he had taken while doing his duty at the barricade and which had certainly muddled his thoughts that night, and so M. Chabouillet was certain that Javert would prove himself worthy of such trust by returning to his work as soon as he was able, without giving future cause for M. Chabouillet to regret his intervention.

Javert rested his head in his hands as he looked out at the street. He did not know how he would go back and pretend that nothing had happened, that nothing had changed. Would they not see that he was no longer a man with a withered lump of wood to take the place of his heart? Would it not be visible to all that instead, here was someone who was wounded to the core of his being; who had been cracked open; whose heart was bleeding sap from this strange spring growth in winter?

Perhaps that was what would happen: he would wither away like a leaf unfurled too early, before the final frost. As he thought this, the door opened and the woman entered. Toussaint was her name, he knew that much now, as he knew that the girl's name was Cosette, even though Valjean was careful to keep her away from him, and that the corpse's name was Marius; that she was in love with him, and that she would spend a great many hours of the day praying for him and preparing lint Valjean would deliver to his house in the Marais.

How strange, he thought once more as he watched Toussaint place the wash basin on a table, how strange to think that Valjean had such a life, and that it was not all stolen secrets and shadows and lies, but that it was full of people who looked at him, and loved him, and that yet Valjean himself seemed unable to accept what Javert had told him: that he was free. There was no reason for the great melancholy that would often overcome him when Cosette was gone to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and he was alone with Javert, whose pastime had become to watch this man who had saved him despite his wishes.

"Monsieur will soon return from church," Toussaint said after he had stared balefully at the window some more. "And there will be dinner ready in a while. A hearty soup is just what you need, monsieur. You will be back on your legs very soon."

He twisted his lips into something he supposed might pass for a smile. Truth be told, he did not know what he would do once he would be able to leave. Oh, he had agreed that his life belonged to Valjean – but could one make a bargain with a criminal? 

He chided himself at the foolish thought. Valjean was as much saint as criminal. It was he, Javert, who had no place anymore. Well, he would find one, he told himself as he looked out of the window again. He had once in his arrogance proclaimed that he would till the ground. Now that he was growing old, and could feel the steady ache of barely knit ribs with every breath he took, he supposed he might be able to find work as a scribe. He could read and write and knew the law. It would be enough not to starve. 

"Will you need assistance with the washing, monsieur? I can hear the church bells from the kitchen, it will not be long now until Monsieur Fauchelevent comes. He will not make you wait, I am certain; no, he worries for you."

Javert looked from the window to Toussaint, and then forced himself not to snort in annoyed derision. Oh, he was certain "Fauchelevent" worried for him!

"He need not worry," he said curtly at last. "I am perfectly well. Truly. Thank you, Toussaint, I will manage well enough on my own."

She came to straighten the curtains, and he thought that she would try to ask another question - after all, a half-drowned inspector had appeared in the apartment one night, and there had been no explanation that he had heard, and no hints given to how he and M. Fauchelevent had come to be acquainted, when as far as he knew Valjean lived a quiet life in the shadows, hiding from everyone who might see him during the day.

"You do him good," she said after the curtain hung to her satisfaction, and Javert was so startled that he sat up straight, ignoring the protest of his tightly bandaged ribcage. "Yes, Monsieur, it does him well to have someone in the house he can talk to, with all that upset about poor M. Pontmercy, and Cosette distraught and spending all her days preparing lint. I do not know what he would do without you here to take his mind off things."

"I do him good," he repeated in disbelief, and she nodded, putting down a new towel next to the basin. 

"He used to have mademoiselle read to him in the evenings; or read to her, when he had bought a new book. But now she goes to the chapel to pray every day, and I go with her, and monsieur stays to keep you company and read to you. In the spring, you must ask him to show you the garden."

“The garden,” Javert repeated again, and then shook his head slightly when he saw the woman had fallen silent, giving him a shrewd look. Had he fallen back so quickly into old habits? There were no secrets here for him to uncover, no rumors to acquire from servants. He already knew too many of Valjean's secrets. What right had he to search out more, as though the man's life was a book for him to leaf through? Valjean had lived quiet years of happiness here in Paris, and, once Javert was gone, he would return to spend the remaining years of his life with the daughter who loved him. Javert had forfeited all his rights to pry into his life. 

“The garden in the Rue Plumet?” he asked when Toussaint remained silent, and she gave a relieved nod. Javert realized all of a sudden that to her, he was not just a stranger. He was a guest; no, more than that – he was trusted, when he did not think that Valjean trusted many people. 

“You know of it, monsieur? That is good. A man his age – I am glad he has a friend.” She released the curtain and took the old towel. “You must excuse me. I am not given to gossiping, and never about monsieur, who is a saint. But I am glad he has distraction. Without mademoiselle to keep him company here, well… One can be too much of a saint.”

Javert frowned, not quite understanding – but the woman was already leaving, giving him the privacy to wash up before Valjean's return. Javert, who had been forced to rely upon Valjean's aid for the simplest things, now felt the urgency to do his toilet in private. Valjean had already ripped too many layers of armor from him. It was a relief to reclaim this autonomy, at least.

When Valjean came home at last, Javert had returned to bed, although he had left the window open. The Bible was by his bedside, and the water in the wash basin had long since cooled. He had heard the voices – the girl's excitement, Valjean's soft, deeper voice; there had been steps running to and fro, doors closing, and at last, silence had returned to the apartment once more while below in the street, he could hear the sounds of a fiacre that would take the two women to a nearby church.

Javert took a deep breath and was rewarded with the dull pain that had become a constant companion. How much longer until he could leave? Toussaint might think him a friend of her employer, but he had not failed to note that Valjean took great pains to keep the girl away from him. 

He smiled wryly. What a fool Valjean was, to think that he would give away his secret when already Javert had chosen to kill himself rather than give this man up to the authorities. Perhaps he _was_ mad – but in that case, nothing Valjean had said had cured his madness. Javert could still not give him up, could not bear to think of him in the heavy chain. What did Javert care what lies Valjean would have told the girl about his past? None of that mattered. Nothing truly mattered when Javert could still feel the heavy weight of a life wasted on his chest, and knew that to surrender Valjean to the police, to the lash and the chain and the cruelty of the galleys, would be to cast himself into darkness again – and that this time, there would be no savior coming for him.

Javert looked at the crucifix on the wall, then took up the Bible that Valjean left with him, seeking to distract himself from the labyrinthine madness that had taken over what had once been the orderly map of his mind.

When at last the door opened and Valjean came in, carrying a tray of tea, he looked tired. The lines on his face were more pronounced, and for a moment, Javert had a hard time to reconcile this man with the man who had dragged a corpse – that boy, he reminded himself sharply, Pontmercy; not a corpse after all – through the sewers. Valjean smiled at him, but it was a fleeting gesture, and the warmth did not reach his eyes. Javert closed the Bible to watch Valjean instead. Then he realized what he was doing and forced his eyes away, suddenly feeling flustered.

What did he care whether Valjean looked tired? And he had only just been out, and had perhaps foregone a fiacre, the fool, even though from sitting by the window Javert knew that it was cold and windy despite the sunshine. Had Valjean worn one of his threadbare, old coats to church?

No, Javert then thought, no – Valjean would dress sensibly for church. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was the fact that Valjean stepped before God with as much trepidation as Javert had felt when standing before a superior.

"You look exhausted," he said by way of greeting. He almost flinched at his own curtness, then decided that he had no reason to show gratitude. He had not asked Valjean to bring him here, after all.

Valjean gave him that smile again, and Javert felt his ire rise at the meaningless gesture. He had seen Valjean smile; he knew what it looked like when Valjean meant it. His true smiles held the warmth of the sun and had the power to render Javert speechless; he had often found himself floundering when that rare warmth shone down at him at the doctor’s report on his progress, or the few, damning times when Javert had suddenly found himself voicing his agreement when Valjean spoke of things that once, Javert had condemned. No, he knew Valjean’s smiles, and the memory left him strangely bewildered before indignity returned. Did the man think that he could be fooled now?

He put the Bible down determinedly. “Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head,” he quoted with satisfaction. "Is that what you are doing?"

"Javert..." Valjean floundered for a moment, and Javert felt a petty satisfaction rise within him to see Valjean at a loss. Was it not fair that Valjean as well should feel the disorientation of this life he had forced on Javert? How perfectly peaceful a life Valjean could have led, if he had stayed away from the river that night.

Javert pressed his lips together and leaned forward, but then a twinge of pain made him freeze and hold a hand to his ribcage.

"Damn you," he said after a moment had passed. "Damn you, just let me leave."

Valjean sat down on the bed and put his hand to his brow. Startled at the touch, Javert paused and stared into his eyes.

"No fever, Javert. Nothing but the grumbling of a fettered spirit, then." This time, there was warmth in Valjean's eyes as his lips twitched . 

"It is as the doctor says: the louder you protest, the better you get. But there, you have felt it yourself. You can barely make it to the window on your own. I regret that you are not happy here, but if you move too much, the rib might pierce something vital inside."

Javert exhaled slowly, forcing himself to keep back the sound of discomfort that wanted to escape. After a moment, he leaned back and took hold of one of the cups. His hand trembled only very slightly, although the tea was hot enough that he nearly spilled some when he burnt his tongue.

"Here. A letter came for you today." Valjean held out the folded sheet of paper. When Javert reached out for it, he became aware of the slight tremor of the hand holding it; when he grasped it and looked up questioningly, Valjean averted his eyes, then stood again and walked towards the window. 

“If you need to send an answer – or any letter, Javert, I hope you know that – I will fetch paper and a pen for you.”

The writing was familiar. When Javert opened the letter and smoothed it out on his lap, his brows drew together in sudden understanding. Valjean had brought him a letter from the station-house. He could not wrap his mind around it. Had Valjean, who had hid in the shadows for so long, walked up to an agent of the police in broad daylight to inquire about him, Javert? Had the man grown that foolhardy, and so secure in how deeply Javert was indebted to him?

He raised his head and found Valjean still looking out of the window. He was very tense, and his head was bent – a man awaiting judgment, Javert realized. Had Valjean carried a letter to him, fearing with every step he took that it might contain a message about his own identity? Worse, had he offered Javert pen and paper while fearing that Javert would use his own ink to write out his sentence, to send back orders for men to come into his own house to arrest him? Was that why he had waited to bring him the letter until the women were gone?

He wanted – he could not even say. To rage at Valjean. To grab him by the lapels and draw him close enough that he could see into his eyes and snarl at him with all the fury stored up in him that this saint would expect such a thing of him – worse! That Valjean would let such a thing come to pass without protest!

_Make yourself a martyr_ , he thought wildly, _yes, do that, but I will not be your Pilate. I refuse, do you hear me?_

“Javert? Is everything well?”

The concern in Valjean's voice made him focus on the letter in his hand. He had crumpled it in that sudden fit, and his cheeks flushed with humiliation as he smoothed it out again.

“It is nothing,” he said stiffly. He perused the content of the letter. Henry almost sounded as if Javert were truly missed – ah. And there was the reason: Henry had been forced to investigate three charnel houses without him to do his share of the work in the last week alone. No wonder the man wished for his speedy recovery.

“Nothing. Just Henry telling me that with or without me, the streets are not safe; good men are murdered – here, a wagon carrying mushrooms tipped over, damn those gamins – a brawl in the stalls of the Marché des Innocents, hah! That is Paris for you – and–” He broke off abruptly as he stared at the words before him

“Javert?”

He took a deep breath. The dull ache of his ribs seemed nearly a comfort, so familiar had it become. He read the sentences again, then, with slow, neat movements, folded the letter and laid it aside. “It is nothing,” he said, concentrating on breathing calmly. “Well, it seems my duties are still needed by the police, and there is much work waiting for me as soon as I am able to return.”

He did not say what he had read, which was that Henry had all but said that Javert had been demoted. Well. And had he not been a police spy before? He could become so again. What did it matter to him, who had sought to throw his life away and who had used his work to commit a hundred terrible deeds? Perhaps a mere spy could become less terrible a person. There would in any case be less choices for him to make. 

His ribs ached again as he breathed deeply, thinking of the work that was to be done. Had he not single-handedly apprehended Patron-Minette? And should he now skulk in corners, clad in rags, shivering in the cold every day for a piece of gossip, when that man Jondrette was still at large, when there were revolutionaries to apprehend in the aftermath of the failed rebellion, when–

He laughed soundlessly at himself. “What a fool you are, Javert,” he said, and then, at Valjean's concerned gaze, looked away. Damn the man and his concern. To live still seemed impossible.

He looked at his hands where they rested on the clean, white blanket. Large and cruel they seemed, the talons of some monster – but now they were grasping helplessly for something to hold on to, when there was nothing left to give him guidance, not the law, not duty, when he had striven to be irreproachable all his life and had been reproached by God, when he had been sentenced not to die, but to live...

And had God now chosen Jean Valjean as his jailer, judge, and conscience? 

“What a headache it is to live,” he said softly and buried his face in his hands. Perhaps Valjean would leave now. Javert knew himself to be ungrateful and callous. Valjean deserved gratitude, not censure. But all the same, gratitude was not yet within him, and he remained stiff and unmoving even when Valjean returned to his side and took up the Bible once more.

#

Javert sat up, startled by the sound of the door being opened and closed, for he had not expected Valjean to return so quickly. A moment later, there were quick steps, and then the girl burst into the parlour.

“Oh!” she said, her eyes widening in surprise. A moment later, she had caught herself, and her expression became determined as she came closer. “Monsieur, forgive me! I have never seen you out of father’s room; are you better? He told me you were injured very gravely, and I need to apologize for my inattentiveness; imagine, here you have been our guest for so long and we have never spoken! But my father reassured me that the doctor said that you are not to be disturbed, and then, I have been visiting the chapel to pray for my poor Marius every day.”

She took off her bonnet. The weight of her hair spill over her shoulders, and Javert's breath stuck in his throat at the sight as he remembered shorn hair, and a woman on her knees as she pleaded for her freedom. Now here, her daughter stood before him, and he felt a strange emotion grow in his heart at the way she said _father_. For the first time in many years, he thought of that moment when he had burst upon Jean Valjean in the hospital, where a woman was dying, and how he had spoken words with such cruel satisfaction that they had stuck in her chest just as certainly as though he had used a knife.

He, Javert, agent of authority, was a murderer, and he had murdered the mother of the girl who smiled at him now with the innocent curiosity of one who had never even imagined such a scene.

All of a sudden he understood why Valjean had kept him carefully away from the girl. Perhaps it was fear, but Valjean had no reason to fear that Javert would reveal anything of the past that might cause either of them further hurt. No: Valjean was right in keeping him away, because Javert had no right to be in her presence while she did not know that it was he who had murdered Fantine.

His throat worked; he found he could not speak. She was still watching him with that terrible innocence in her eyes. Valjean was a madman, he decided suddenly, biting back the laugh that struggled to bubble forth. A madman to shelter him, a madman to keep him here in the same apartment where his daughter lived – the daughter of the woman, he, Javert, had murdered.

Oh, he could struggle and berate himself for a thousand days and strive on his knees to find a way to make up for what he had done to Valjean – but nothing he could do would ever be enough to make up for what he had done to this girl. 

“I will bring you a cup of tea, monsieur,” she said, her voice softer now as concern took over. “No, do not argue! Father will chide me if he thinks I've made you feel worse; he worries about you. To think that I never even knew he had friends in this town! Ah, do not look at me like that, monsieur; I will let you and father keep your secrets – like schoolboys you are! But as long as father has someone to keep him company and make sure that he keeps the fire lit while I am out, I will be very grateful and let the two of you keep your secrets.”

Javert could not think of a reply, but it did not seem a reply was expected; the girl went into the kitchen, and a short while later returned with a steaming cup. He could not have denied her in good conscience, and he found that he was glad to have something to wrap his cold fingers around. 

To think of Valjean worried – about him! To hear himself called _friend_! The very word struck something within him that had heretofore been long dead and silent: a place in his chest that was not quite empty, but still hard and cold, so that he had never even felt that absence which another person would fill with company and the trust of someone who offered companionship.

Now, he realized, inhaling the fragrant steam that rose from his cup; now his aching ribs clenched around an emptiness, a hollow place where his newborn heart beat against his bruised flesh with painful flutters. Was this pain rushing through him the awareness that he, who had never desired anything but to live a life following the straight road of the law, now desired not only to leave that road to follow the thorny trail of goodness, but also to do so with another by his side?

He pressed his fingers against the thin walls of porcelain, waiting for the heat of the tea to soak into the bones of his hands. What could he say to the girl? He could not say anything; Valjean would not want it. Valjean must have supposed that she would stay at the chapel for longer, otherwise he would never have left Javert out here.

And yet, if Valjean was so afraid that Javert would give away the secrets of his past, why take him in at all? If compassion did not allow for sending Javert home, a bed in a hospital could have been arranged.

Javert studied the fragile china that rested in his hand. It was the color of bleached bone, paper-thin, and the girl had been as attentive as a guest could have wished for. He stole another glance at her as he raised the tea to his lips to take a slow sip. She was speaking of the sunshine now, and of how she and Toussaint had nearly another two baskets of lint ready to bring to the boy’s family. Her eyes were bright with curiosity at the puzzle he must be – and yet, it seemed that he still appeared so weak and shaken to her that she did not attempt to ask further questions and left him to his own thoughts while she filled the silence. 

How strange indeed to sit and watch her. Nothing in her gave away the past.

What was he, Javert, doing here? All of a sudden he felt his intrusion like a sharp pain. No, he had no place here. Friendship – even the thought was laughable. To imagine such a thing, Jean Valjean looking at him and saying “friend,” saying “brother”...

“Monsieur, have I exhausted you? You look pale,” Cosette said, and even as he wearily shook his head and tried to force his muddled brain to come up with a subject of conversation that would leave all of the secrets between him and Valjean safely untouched, the door opened, and in came Toussaint with a large basket, and behind her, Jean Valjean.

Valjean froze as soon as he saw Cosette sitting by Javert's side, and once more Javert felt weary to the bone with this life he had never asked for. He had not wanted this heart that now clenched in his chest at knowing that Valjean thought him capable of causing hurt, of baring the scars of the past to cause new wounds. 

Cosette left his side to lead Toussaint into the kitchen for an account of her marketing – “The mushrooms so cheap today, mademoiselle, you will not believe it!” he heard, and “no, mademoiselle, no eggs, there is half a score left in the pantry,” – and then Valjean came closer, still pale as a ghost, and Javert produced once more that croaking laugh.

“Do not look at me like that, Valjean. I said nothing,” he said, puzzled by the way his chest ached once more when a tremor ran through Valjean and his eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again, there was the slightest hint of a smile.

“I do not ask you to lie for me,” Valjean said, and hesitated – as if, Javert thought with disgust, as if he was not certain he had the right to take a chair in his own home. 

“Sit down! The deuce, Valjean, what is the matter with you?” Javert asked, impatient more with himself than with Valjean. No, he had not wanted this life; neither had he wanted these emotions that rolled around in his heart like stones, with sharp edges that could apparently cut and bruise at will. “Lie for you! Hah! No, no, you decided to take my life for your own; well then! Live with it now. You have my life; I have your secrets; neither of us is willing to relinquish our burden. Lie for you, hah! When I still hear that voice calling out to me, naming me Pilate – no, no, I refuse, do you hear me?”

“Javert, are you well?” Valjean had stood, and now his fingers pressed against Javert's brow once more with insistent gentleness, his eyes full of concern. Javert fell silent, abashed. Indeed, he had been raving like a madman – but then, such was the effect Jean Valjean had on him. 

“No fever,” Valjean said, and Javert flushed.

“No. No, forgive me. I am well. I–”

Valjean drew his hand away again, and Javert shivered. Perhaps Valjean was wrong. Javert did not know how to explain this sudden heaviness in his bones, or the way his heart thumped in his chest until his bruised ribs ached.

“Perhaps I am not well,” he said and licked his lips. His throat was dry. He tried to sip more tea; his hand shook so much that he spilled some onto his shirt. He made an embarrassed sound of dismay; it seemed unbearable sometimes to be diminished to this: he, a man who had never suffered much from illness, now reduced to such humiliation.

As always, Valjean's touch was unbearably gentle when he steadied his shaking hand. Javert almost wept with frustration when Valjean had to help him to guide the cup back onto the table. He could feel the warm wetness seep through the fabric of his shirt, and was suddenly and mortifyingly reminded of those first days when he had needed Valjean's help to relieve himself.

That he could manage on his own now, as long as he moved slowly and carefully. But this – that he could not even drink from a cup of tea... He grimaced and closed his eyes, too disgusted with himself to even beg for Valjean's forgiveness. Again he wondered what he was doing here. To be shut away in his own small chamber; to be blessedly out of the sight of others; to have no company but – there his thoughts faltered. To see no one but his portress bringing him food... No, all of a sudden the thought was distasteful. 

Had he grown too used to Valjean's presence? Could such a thing be?

Javert could not say. The crippling embarrassment remained even when Valjean helped him up. He was led back towards the bedroom with slow, careful steps, for Javert's legs were yet as weak as his aching ribs that had barely begun to knit together. 

The weakness was horrifying and the humiliation of it burned in him with greater agony than that of the broken rib. And yet, a part of him had come to trust in the strength of Valjean's gentle hands, and had come to depend on those strong arms that had never failed to hold him when his legs gave out, those muscles that had pulled him from the waters of the Seine, defying the violence of the rapids in an act of madness.

“I am sorry,” he said at last, his voice choked with more than pain as Valjean helped him settle down on the bed. Valjean thankfully chose to ignore the disgraceful display he had made, and instead took hold of a cloth to gently dry the rivulets of warm tea.

“Javert.” Valjean's hand lingered for a moment on his shoulder when Javert did not know where to look from mortification and that hated feeling of utter impotence. “It is of no importance. You will heal soon enough.”

Javert could not make himself raise his eyes. Instead, his gaze lingered on the clean, white blanket, and on his own hand that rested there, clawing at the sheet as he forced himself to endure Valjean's unbearable kindness. It was torment, he thought again. How much longer could he bear this?

“Here, a clean shirt,” Valjean said and took one from a drawer. Javert looked at it dully. One of Valjean's shirts. He had worn only the one set of clothes on his body, after all, and the nightshirts he wore were Valjean's as well: too large, but clean and comfortable, and... His mind skittered away, unable to probe whatever sentiment it was that made him shudder like a horse shaking off a fly.

No. He was tired and in pain, and had already humiliated himself utterly; whatever darkness lurked within his thoughts could not be pulled out today to be examined. Not when Valjean was watching him with such infuriating concern.

Valjean put down the garment. Then, he leaned closer – so close that when he swallowed, Javert could watch the way his throat moved beneath his shirt. Valjean's fingers brushed against his own throat, and Javert tensed and ceased to breathe for one moment. He wore no cravat. Valjean's fingers had brushed bare skin, and when at last Javert exhaled, shaking and wide-eyed as though his fever had suddenly returned without reason, he saw his breath stir the locks of white hair, coaxing one to fall forward from where it had been smoothed back behind an ear.

Javert's lips parted. His fingers shuddered against the sheet. This heavy stone he bore within his chest expanded; his ribs ached hotly with every drumbeat of his heart, and he watched the way the lock slid forward to rest against Valjean's brow. Javert barely realized that Valjean's fingers were continuing their work, unbuttoning his damp shirt so that more and more of his chest was bared to the cool air and Valjean's gaze. Javert could not avert his own gaze. He could only look at that lock of hair, could only watch as it swayed gently, brushing silk-soft against Valjean's skin, tangling once in the dark lashes of his lowered eyes...

Javert exhaled again and, as if in a dream, watched himself lean forward and reach out. By chance, at the exact same moment, Valjean had reached out to help him sit up to pull the wet shirt from him, and so, instead of brushing back that stray lock of hair with his hand, Javert found Valjean's face briefly pressed to his cheek. 

The lock of white hair that had him so mesmerized slid against his lips, just once: a gentle brush of silk, of spiderweb, something even lighter and cleaner: a ray of sunlight falling upon him for the briefest of moments – and then blood rushed through him, filling him with a heat that left him light-headed and dizzy. His cheeks were burning, his limbs trembling; his entire soul was enfolded in the embrace of an angel, he thought deliriously as he breathed in the scent of warmth, of golden sunlight and sweet prayer and white candles and hands buried in fertile loam.

For one single heartbeat, it seemed to him his soul hung transfixed – perfectly balanced as though a weight of white feathers had softly fallen into one side of an enormous scale and lifted the other side out of a river of darkness. Now there the scale stood in silent equilibrium, and his heart trembled within him, suddenly made light; the gnarled wood had filled with the rush of sap and heard for the first time the call of spring whisper _grow_ , and bid all green things to reach out for the sun, to flower.

That moment could not last. For one heartbeat, his soul floated weightlessly, enveloped by a strange, new peace – and then his heart beat again, like a large, bronze bell that reverberated through his body, his sore ribs the broken arches of a decrepit church. He groaned, aching, mute, overwhelmed by the mystery that had opened up in his chest. His heart beat once more, and now Valjean moved back and looked at him with new concern as Javert's ribcage ached more fiercely than ever around this monstrous heart within him that had just decided to live, and to love, and to damn Javert to ruin.

Javert trembled at the touch of Valjean's hands that pressed him gently back into the pillows. Valjean's hand brought a cold cloth to cool his brow once more. It lingered, shy and uncertain, on his head for a moment, touching his hair until he needed to close his eyes to hide the terrible secret of his heart that had been revealed to him all of a sudden.

Could this be possible, Javert thought as panic rose within him. Could this be – no, he refused to name it. Not he, Javert! Certainly he could not love! Certainly he could not desire!

And yet, the innocent brush of a stray lock of hair against his lips had revealed something to him which he would have preferred to never know. In that moment, his heart had beaten for Valjean, and he had wanted to press his lips to Valjean’s, and clasp his waist with his hands, and abandon himself to this feeling that had rushed through him and frightened him, for he had never known anything like it before, and had not expected to ever feel such a thing.

He had desired Valjean's touch. That was the terrible secret of his heart, and as it continued to pound in his chest with beat after traitorous beat, he trembled and looked at Valjean with wild, fearful eyes, and did not protest when at last, now frightened himself, Valjean gave him another drop of the laudanum to soothe him to sleep. 

But even as dark waves dragged him under once more, Javert was aware of the warmth by his side and the rough fingers that hesitantly covered his own, until at last sleep quieted the panicked fluttering of his heart against bruised ribs that had never before contained such terrifying feelings.


	3. A Kindness That Burns like Coals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life begins to intrude, and the apartment in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé is visited by a policeman.

His ribs healed slowly. At first Javert grew bored, then inactivity turned into misery. Valjean tried his best to keep him out of the other rooms when Cosette was at home, and Javert could not blame him. How hard it had to be for Valjean to look at Javert sitting there, next to the girl whose mother he had murdered.

Even while his body gradually recovered, his new life remained wearying. Would now every day continue like this? If Valjean set him free once the doctor declared him fit enough to leave his room, would Javert walk the streets of Paris once more, and look at familiar faces – here a woman of the town, there a gamin, here a thief, there an informer – and see not, as he used to do, that criminal caste from which he had risen by cleaving to the path of justice, but men and women who might prove to be angels instead of devils? Would those faces now look at him with the irrefutable goodness of Jean Valjean; would he try to lock a thief in irons only to hear that voice cry out into his ear, “Will you deliver your savior?”

How could one live like this? It seemed impossible. How could he go back to such a life? And yet, was it not also possible that the voice might speak lies into his ear? He had reason now to doubt this new heart. How could he trust it to tell angel from devil when it was also filled with such shameful yearning for his savior?

Perhaps the choice had been made for him, he thought the day a pale, but strangely resigned Valjean led a man into his bedroom. It was Henry, and Javert's first thought was of Valjean, his heart beating a harsh rhythm against his broken ribcage as his body froze with the fear that it was too late, that they had found out, that now he would have to watch as Jean Valjean was taken away in irons, and so damn Javert forevermore...

“Good God, Javert! You look worse than the letters made it sound!”

Valjean looked from Henry to Javert, and then, still very pale, but outwardly calm, offered to leave Javert to enjoy the company of his guest. The door quietly closed behind him before Javert could figure out what to say without giving away his own fear.

When Henry slowly came closer, Javert shook off those crippling thoughts. What was he thinking? They would not have sent Henry, on his own, to make an arrest. And there was no reason at all for anyone at the station-house to suspect Fauchelevent. 

“I brought letters for you.” Henry hesitated for a moment before he put them down on the bedside table. Javert eyed the small bundle with idle curiosity, then glanced at Henry once more.

Henry was still in his thirties. His face was round and given to smiles, his hair blond; it had once been much admired by grisettes, although it had started to thin years ago. His uncle had served with Treilhard when he was Prefect of Seine-Inférieure, which Javert had sometimes silently blamed for the fact that such a man had found work with the police. To Javert's critical eyes, Henry worked too slowly and smiled too much and was still given to believing the thousand lies a gamin would tell.

Studying the face that now watched him with worry, Javert corrected himself. No, he knew nothing about Henry. Perhaps Henry's strange compunction had betimes been right when Javert had judged him harshly. And yet, was Henry not also given to believe the lies of a pretty grisette or a woman of the town over those told by gamins or cart-drivers or toothless beggars?

Javert winced as he leaned back against his pillow. This world was a headache. Whom could he believe, if he could no longer believe his own senses? 

To distract himself, he took hold of the small parcel of letters. He waited for the feeling of dread to return when he saw the familiar handwriting of M. Chabouillet, but instead, there was nothing but emptiness within him. He put it aside. Another letter, this one from the office of the Prefect. Javert smiled darkly to himself. Jean Valjean had saved him – but he had been saved only for this. To face the consequences of his actions.

Well, perhaps that was not so wrong. He had tried to judge himself and been denied. Both God and Jean Valjean seemed stubbornly insistent on heaping compassion onto his head as though he could not feel every kind word and good deed as the burning coals they were.

Let his betters judge him, then. He supposed they had as much of a right to it, seeing as it was they whom he had thought he had faithfully served for so long, and they whom he had thought to abandon.

One letter he had written, and now he would reap what he had sowed. He wondered what words of censure awaited. All deserved, no doubt. For a man like him to criticize the Prefect...

Yes. It was deserved.

His fingers trembled against the sheet as he thought of another letter he would need to write: another list of injustices that weighed on his conscience with that heaviness of burning coals. 

Perhaps one day soon, they would all wish that Jean Valjean had let him drown. Perhaps especially Jean Valjean would hope that – was already hoping it! Again Javert felt a sudden tension of worry within him, for he had seen Valjean pale at the sight of Javert sitting next to his daughter. How much worse would it have to be for Valjean to know himself alone in his apartment with two agents of the police, one of whom knew his secret?

“You do not look good, Javert.” Henry hesitated again. “I did not know you had friends in the city; I'm glad that there is someone to take care of you.”

Now, Javert supposed, was the time to come up with an explanation, some lie that would be easy enough to swallow: distant relatives he had only recently found, or perhaps even the explanation that he had saved the life of the girl's beloved might serve.

He could not open his mouth and speak the words. No more lies, he thought wearily. Had he not once prided himself on his inability to speak untruths? Better to continue that habit, then. He had put truths onto paper, and sent those truths to the Prefect. He supposed that was as worthwhile a use of this life he had not wanted as anything.

Henry looked more concerned with every moment that passed in silence, and so at last Javert made himself straighten, ignoring the soreness of his ribs. “I am glad you came, but there was no need, Henry. You must have a great many things to do. And the doctor will not let me leave the bed just yet. On Sundays, they let me take tea at the table with them, much the way they let a dying man take the sacrament–”

Henry now looked at him with new worry, and Javert pressed his lips together. No, he was not satisfied with himself at all. He made no sense; Henry had to think him mad.

Or ill. Perhaps Henry would return to the station-house to give a colorful account of how the feared Inspector Javert had finally lost his wits and ranted like a madman.

Javert exhaled deeply at the realization that this was not so far from the truth. Was this not what they would have said about him, had Jean Valjean not pulled him from the waters that night?

“I will get better soon enough,” he made himself say with forced politeness, which still came to him only with great difficulty. “The doctor has promised it. Ribs take their time to mend, it seems.”

Now Henry gave him a weak smile in return. “I would be glad to see you back sooner rather than later,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “The truth is, Javert, they make me work with Martin now, and whatever happened that night with the insurgents – well, the commissaire has said that if you return–”

Henry brushed his hands against his trousers, then looked at the letters once more. “I think they'll keep Martin in your position. I'm sorry, Javert; it looks like even if you come back, he will keep doing your work.”

“And they'll have me in rags spending days and nights among drunkards and beggars,” Javert said bitterly, “wasting week upon week on the chance that I might catch a rumor somewhere. No, do not look at me like that, Henry. It is well; it is still work, and if they will have me, I will do whatever work I am assigned.”

Henry sighed heavily, although Javert noted that he could not quite meet his eyes. Well, it had been kind of Henry to come in the first place, Javert told himself. For Henry, the loss of Javert was a chance to distinguish himself, even though it seemed like Martin would profit most. He could not hold it against either.

“I have to go now. Another brawl in the Marché des Innocents; be grateful that you don't have to listen to the complaints. These mushrooms are too cheap, those crates have vanished, that man sent thugs to beat my workers– well.” He broke off. 

“It was good to see you, Javert.” This time, there was actual warmth in Henry's eyes, which Javert took to mean that he did look indeed as terrible as he still felt. He nodded, and then, once the man was gone, took up the letters, to castigate himself with his superiors' displeasure.

#

Walking had become somewhat easier. Javert could make his way to the chair by the window easily enough – or at least, he could make it without help, and that was what counted. He still flushed at those half-lost memories of Valjean's body carrying his weight, of Valjean's hands wiping his fevered skin with a soft, cool cloth, or the indignation of needing Valjean's help to use the chamber pot.

But it was no use to dwell on these thoughts. He could not change the past, and what was that indignity compared to the doubt that still writhed within his breast? Valjean, who had every right to gloat at his lifelong tormentor's weakness, touched him with careful, gentle hands. Javert had never found anger in his eyes, never disgust. Always, there had only been that terrible pity and compassion which now burned painfully in his chest, as though the man's touch had cracked him open like a walnut with his relentless goodness. Now, from within the ache of his broken ribs, there grew a tender shoot, straining away from the harshness of Javert, whose shriveled heart offered little soil, and bending only towards the sunlight of Valjean's goodness.

He had watched yesterday when Valjean had changed the bandages and washed his chest. Javert could wash himself now, slowly and weakly and moving like an old man – but as there was little else he could occupy his time with, it was not time wasted, but rather a first attempt to wrest back some independence from this man he had to come to depend on. Javert could save them both the mortifying experience, and so, Javert thought, he was doing a good thing, and it would not be long at all now until he could leave this building, and then–

There his thoughts always faltered.

But the time to leave had not yet arrived. He was not well yet, and when Valjean had unwound the bandages yesterday, Javert had watched quietly as his pale, sunken chest was revealed. The bruises that had at first spread dark and purple over his skin were mostly gone. Only a few blotches of sickly yellow remained here and there. Those, too, would vanish in time, and the broken rib would knit sooner or later. Javert would be able to walk, and to work, and if he wanted to prove himself a good man, he would forget the name Jean Valjean entirely, and would make certain to never visit again.

Certainly Valjean deserved that much.

With new determination, Javert reached out for the shaving utensils once he had made his way towards the wash basin. It would be well, he told himself. There was a chair; he could sit. He would feel better to remove the stubble from his skin, and it would save him from the indignity of having to sit still for Valjean's touch, of hearing the blood rush so loud and fast through his veins that certainly Valjean must be able to notice the drum of his heart. He could not say why it unsettled him so; at best, Valjean would think it fear. Had not Valjean held a knife at the barricades, and had not Javert thought that he had reason to tremble with fear then? Let Valjean think that nothing had changed. 

But something _had_ changed, Javert thought even as he slowly, meticulously, applied the lather to his chin. This disobedient heart within his chest still quaked at the sight of Valjean, and at last, Javert had learned true fear: not for what Valjean might do to him, but of what Valjean might not do.

Valjean might not desire to see him again, once Javert was well enough to leave. Of course Valjean would not; Valjean was a compassionate man, but even so, he worried more for his daughter's well-being than for Javert's. Javert could not fault him for that.

He raised the blade to his cheek, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt and gray, his eyes bloodshot and surrounded by dark shadows. His lips drew back for a humorless smile and revealed his teeth – but even that did not look as terrifying as it used to. Not when he looked like a gust of wind might carry him away like a dead leaf. He would not frighten any thieves like this; rather, he would attract attention he did not want, and end up with a knife in his back – the once fearsome Javert bleeding out in the gutters.

He hesitated for a moment. But was that not what he had wanted?

A drop of blood ran down his cheek, tinting the foam that covered his face a sickly pink. He hissed and dropped the blade in disgust when he realized that he had nicked himself. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. It was as though looking at his reflection had sapped all of his strength: the man with wild hair and gaunt cheeks who stared back at him, a thin trickle of red blood running from the tiny cut, seemed full of disgust.

Javert pushed the mirror away, then looked at his hands. He unclenched his fingers. His hands were large and strong; ungainly, claw-like, yes – but how often had they clutched the lapels of a thief, or wrapped the iron shackles around a murderer? Now a tremor ran through them, even as he watched, and he lowered them with a disgusted noise. Valjean would know, of course, he thought without humor. Valjean would see the cut, and then–

The door opened slowly, and Valjean half stepped in, as gingerly as though he feared to disturb Javert's rest. Javert grimaced at the thought of being coddled in such a way. This was Valjean's home, after all. This was Valjean's room, Valjean's bed; he wore Valjean's nightshirt when he slept, ate Valjean's food, and now had managed to cut himself with Valjean's razor.

There was no need at all for Valjean to tread lightly in his own home. Of course, there was no use telling the man that.

When he looked up, he saw that Valjean had come closer, and now stood next to him with a small frown. Valjean's hands came up, and hesitated for a moment – but then they continued. Gently but firmly, they took hold of his face, and in silent surrender Javert allowed himself to be turned so that Valjean could inspect the cut.

“I hope you will not insult the both of us by asking whether it was intentional,” he said curtly. Valjean gave him a reluctant smile.

“You sound like you are feeling better.”

Javert took a deep breath, then looked down, biting back the words on his tongue. Once more he wearied of his own protests. Here _was_ his savior, and no denial would change that. All his derision brought him was the fleeting satisfaction at his own pettiness – but he needed only look at Valjean to feel all of that swept away, and know himself for the pitiful man he was.

He took another breath, fighting with himself to force out the words. “I am... not as grateful as you deserve,” he said stiffly. “I know that. I owe you an apology.”

Valjean's thumb grazed his cheek, and his only answer was a distracted sound as he looked at the cut.

Javert felt his chest contract again. It was impossible to live like this, he thought helplessly as his heart ached, like a bruise Valjean had unexpectedly put pressure on. Javert had not wanted this. He had not wanted to live. He had not wanted to be forced to hold still for Valjean's hands upon him, and feel his breath get stuck in his throat from nothing more but that gentle touch. Javert had not wanted to know that Valjean's hands were rough, but always unbearably gentle, as though Javert were something precious he feared to smash: one of the cups of bone-colored china, maybe – but Javert's skin was not thin as paper, not translucent in the sunlight. Javert's hide was scarred and rough. He was little better than a bristly old dog, and Valjean should use chain and leash for him, and not touch him with gentleness.

“You push yourself too much.” Valjean released him only to take up the razor with reluctant determination, as though he did not cherish the task, but had decided that Javert could not be trusted with it.

Well, it was the truth, Javert thought, suddenly angry again at his own hands, which had always served so well, only to betray him now. He should not be trusted. He could not even shave himself. How would he ever be fit again to do his work?

“Please do not move, Javert.”

Javert held still obediently. The light that fell in through the window was warm, but a shiver ran through his body at the sensation of Valjean's hands firmly grasping his face.

The trouble was, Javert thought dizzily, his pulse pounding at his temple, the trouble was that it was too easy to trust Valjean, with his gentle strength and his worry; Valjean, whom Javert knew would give up his own bed for his worst enemy in a heartbeat.

It should not be so easy to surrender and allow Valjean to grasp his face and slowly slide a razor along his throat. But it _was_ easy. And with every passing day, the relief within him grew when Valjean would come and do these things for him. He still could not see the straight path before him that had always been there – but here, it was enough to be, and to trust Valjean.

The blade was slowly drawn over his cheek. Valjean still held his chin in a firm grip with one hand while he shaved along Javert's sideburns. Javert breathed shallowly, keeping his eyes on the wall. There hung the small crucifix. The copper gleamed in the sunlight.

Another slow, careful swipe of the blade, and the pounding of his blood seemed unbearable. It should not be like this, he told himself again in his despair. He should be grateful, were he a good man. Or he should rage, grip Valjean's arm and hurl insults at his face for that fleeting reward of bringing pain to the one who had chained him to the pain of this life. He could do that, and know himself still terrible.

But to sit here quietly, to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, and the careful grip of Valjean's hand, to feel his blood rush through his body with an urgency that had no reason, for clearly Valjean meant nothing by touching him so... Javert did not know what to do or say, save to sit quietly and endure, and feel a secret shame at how within his chest, his heart constricted in painful and exquisite ways.

Was this not a betrayal? His blood roared within him, and it nearly frightened him to learn that he was capable of such things: to tremble at the way the razor slid over his skin as though it was a caress, to breathe in and remember the way Valjean's hair had smelled like warmth and sunshine as it brushed against his lips, to find himself handled with such kindness, as though he, the sinner, were something precious to this saint before him.

What would Valjean think, were he to know the truth of the confusion his touch brought Javert? But then, Javert was not certain what to think himself. Perhaps he was still caught in a fever dream, his mind sinking into an ocean of strangeness brought forth by the laudanum. Perhaps, once he was well, he would be able to behave as he should, shake Valjean's hand, thank him with humble gratitude, and then leave and never speak that name Jean Valjean to anyone again, save in his prayers at night when he would pay respect to his savior.

Valjean leaned down as he tilted Javert's head back further, the razor gliding up his throat, and his breath warmed Javert's skin. Javert closed his eyes in quiet despair. 

How much had changed in the course of a few weeks. _A surin_ , he had called out with grim satisfaction when there in the Rue Mondetour, Valjean had taken out his knife. There, he had expected to feel that knife in his belly, or maybe to have his throat slit. Here, he now bared his throat willingly for the blade, and the blood that pounded at his temples tormented him not because he was afraid, but because his life was in the hands of the one man who would handle it with nothing but kindness. 

“Are you well, Javert?” Valjean interrupted his despairing thoughts at last. “Did another letter come while I was out?”

Javert sighed wearily. “No,” he said, and then was quiet for a moment. “No. It does not matter; M. Chabouillet is rightly displeased with me; I disgraced him. But I was right to write the letter. Only it was not right of me to criticize the Prefect. Maybe that is what I shall tell M. Chabouillet. That I was right, but that it was not the right thing to do.”

The blade stilled for a moment, there at his throat. “Javert,” Valjean then said carefully. “You do not need to go back. Have you thought about that?”

Javert kept his eyes shut. He thought that if he opened them, his shame at his own failings would be too acute; he would have to excuse himself, leave the room, hide from the kindness this man kept on insisting on pouring into the cracked shell of his heart. 

“I have thought about it,” he said slowly, and the blade took up his work again. Warm breath brushed against his ear, and he was forced to keep silent for a while. 

When he could speak again, a flush on his cheeks, he said, “I told you once that I deserve to be turned out. That I have hands, and can work the soil instead. I have thought about that. Doubtlessly I deserve that. And yet – everything I wrote was the truth. And if I take my leave now, they will say that Javert, poor old Javert, was mad, had been mad ever since he was taken prisoner at the barricade, and that his letter held nothing but the unfortunate ramblings of a confused mind. Doubtlessly that is what they are saying now. I should leave. But I cannot leave. Because that was the truth. I will not admit to a lie, not in that.”

Valjean did not answer for a moment. The razor continued to scrape away the stubble and the lather that covered his throat. Javert continued breathing, his traitorous heart thumping against his bruised ribs with the same relentless rhythm as Valjean's breath against his face. 

Javert thought of turning his head. Of looking at Valjean. And then? Perhaps then, when he forced himself to face this man, his mind would be able to release whatever sick fascination had arisen within him.

He could not make himself do it. Valjean put the razor away, and then dipped the cloth into the washbasin. When he cleaned Javert's face, his hands moved with the same carefulness that marked all of his words.

“If you desire to return to your work–”

Valjean fell silent, and now, at last, Javert forced himself to open his eyes and face him.

“You need not fear me,” Javert said tiredly. “You have taken hold of my soul – is that not what you have told me? My life was given into your keeping at the barricade; and then again when you pulled me out of the river. I will not fight you on that. I shall live, and you shall be safe. Do you hear me? I have a great many things on my mind to tell the Prefect, if he will hear – but you are a good man.”

Valjean's lips parted, but no word escaped him. Javert watched as Valjean straightened, although now, there was insecurity on his face, when before he had touched with careful certitude.

“Yes, Jean Valjean, you are a good man, and I am not.” Was there bitterness in his voice? Javert was weary, and he ached with that relentless soreness that still made every breath he took a work of labor. If he was bitter, perhaps it could be forgiven. 

“I am not,” he repeated slowly, grappling with that thought in his mind – he, who had always thought himself irreproachable, an agent of injustice! It hurt to even hold that thought in his mind, as though it was a harsh, faceted thing, with sharp, serrated edges that cut him even as he held it. 

“But at the same time, I refuse to be your Pilate. Save each and every person who is put into your path; I cannot keep you from it. I could not keep you from saving me. I don't understand you, but I know I cannot arrest you. They should have to arrest me instead, before I did such a thing.”

Valjean's hand pressed the cloth to his cheek again. Valjean's fingers did not tremble, and Javert found himself appreciating the sting of the small cut once more. 

"There, you have stopped bleeding," Valjean said under his breath, as if concentrating on Javert's well-being was of greater importance than his own security. 

Suddenly, aching with impatience, Javert reached out and closed his hand around Valjean's wrist to pull it away from his face. Valjean froze – and so did Javert when the pads of his fingers brushed over warm skin, pushing up the cuffs a little to reveal there a cruel band of scarred tissue. 

Javert forgot the words that had been on his tongue. What had he wanted to say? Something about forgiveness? He found he could no longer speak what had been on his mind, not with his thumb sliding along the visible, tangible reminder of the injustice Valjean had known – an injustice Javert had played a great part in. And still this man would feed him and care for him, Javert thought helplessly. He still did not understand. How could one understand Jean Valjean? Javert's mouth was dry. Valjean's pulse thrummed beneath his thumb, quick and frightened, when before, his every touch had been calm and certain.

Javert swallowed. He forced himself to release Valjean's hand. It was hard to make his fingers unbend; they had clasped Valjean's wrist like a shackle, and he shuddered slightly when he imagined that this was what Valjean was thinking of him, of his touch. Was that what he was to Valjean? An inescapable memory of the cruelties of the past?

"Forgive me," Javert said after a long moment, his voice strangely rough. "Thank you. You have been very good to me. I cannot repay it. I am a terrible man, and I don't know how to be different than what I was. But for what it is worth, thank you."

Valjean pulled his hand back against his own chest, clasping his other hand around it to rub absentmindedly at where Javert had touched. His face was pale, and his eyes unseeing. Javert wondered if he had indeed made him recall painful memories. 

There was one more sin to add to the heavy burden he already carried. Very well; perhaps one more would make no difference in the long run - but with a sudden, aching desolation, Javert wished it had not been he who had given Valjean new pain to remember.

It was very quiet. Warm rays of sunshine still fell in through the windows. Outside, there was the sound of a fiacre stopping, and after a moment, they could hear steps coming up the stairs, and then Cosette's bright voice, "No, Toussaint, no more lint today, but let us go to the Rue du Babylone tomorrow first.”

Valjean had gone very silent, but at the sound of her chatter, he shook off whatever memories had come over him, and quickly turned away from Javert.

“Is there still bread? We shall have bread and tea,” she called out next. “I am cold now, and Father must be hungry.”

“There is no need for gratitude,” Valjean said, “truly, Javert. If you will excuse me – you will want to finish dressing, I am sure.”

Javert pulled the mirror close once Valjean had retreated, looking at himself. His face was very pale. There was the thin, red line where he had cut himself. He marveled as he looked at his face.

He could still feel the pressure of Valjean's fingers. So strong. So careful.

He pushed the mirror away and buried his face in his hands. Damn the man. His kindness had indeed burned like coals.

#

His body burned. The fever had returned: his blood was scalding his veins from the inside; his heart beat a shuddering rhythm - and then he felt hands on him, cool and firm as they slid over his skin, saving him and taking possession of him with inescapable gentleness.

Javert arched against them. He gasped for breath. The air that filled his lungs was too thick to breathe, and he trembled until those hands smoothed down his chest, soothing him, taking away the heat with them until he could breathe again. The hands rested on his hips. 

Was he naked? he wondered dimly. Why was he naked; had someone undressed him–

The hands stroked along his flanks until all thought had fled and every breath was a prayer for more of this kind, cruel touch. He wanted to beg for it. He _would_ beg for it, he thought, he would give away his self-respect, would do it easily. He would humble himself and accept all sin and shame if he could only have this: this touch, this blissful torment of strong, gentle hands touching him all over, reminding his skin that he was held, that he was utterly bare and revealed, that this man would know all of him because his kind and capable hands had cracked him open already weeks ago...

He half-surfaced from that fever-heat to his heartbeat thudding in his chest, his head pounding with the need that had flushed his body. His calves were entangled in the blanket, his nightshirt rucked up to his belly, and his stiffened cock now slid against the sheet as his hips rubbed against the fabric to the memory of those strong hands on him.

He pressed his palm to himself; the tip was obscenely wet and dragged slickness over his skin. He moaned a gasp into his pillow as he thought of cool hands on his hips. When he slid his hand further down, he imagined those fingers against his thighs, gentle and relentless, spreading him with kindness, and beneath the blanket, his knees fell apart. He imagined cool hands _there_ as well, touching and exploring with that same focused earnestness that Valjean brought to any endeavor. And Javert would allow that... He would watch, perhaps, as they pressed against his swollen flesh, callouses rough against sensitive skin. Valjean would touch slowly, so slowly, would just use his fingertips, and his breath would come calm and hot against Javert's ear, soft, white hair brushing against his cheek. Javert would let Valjean explore as much as he liked until Valjean found out how to rub him so that his cock would stiffen more, and more, until it smeared wetness against his stomach with every breath he took, until every time he exhaled, the air would escape his aching lungs with a tormented groan, until his balls would ache as much as his ribs...

Javert woke fully when his body tensed and his spend covered his belly in a wet rush. For one moment, everything was a confused, warm bliss – and then the truth of where he was and what he had done intruded. He paled. His breathing was still traitorously heavy and loud to his own ears. His heartbeat pounded a punishing rhythm against his bruised ribs, and when he moved, his nightshirt stuck damp and cold to his heated skin. His cock was softening already, smearing more of his issue over his thighs, and for a moment he did not dare to lift his blanket in the terrible certainty that any moment, Valjean would storm into the room, aware of what sin Javert had just committed, aware, too, of how Javert had abused the memory of Valjean's kindness for such foul depravity.

He remained motionless in the darkness, his breathing too loud, waiting, waiting...

There was no sound but that of his heartbeat. His skin itched with the dampness of his cooling semen, and at last, feeling shamed and miserable, Javert moved ever so slowly, careful not to make a sound as he slid out of bed. He shuddered at the way his soiled nightshirt clung to his skin.

Valjean's nightshirt, he thought, and had to swallow back bile. He had done this clothed in the kindness of this man who was very nearly a saint, in his own bed...

There were words for the sort of person he was, and Javert shuddered again as he stood, feeling the weight of them on his shoulder together with his shame. What sort of man was he to do such a thing in his savior's bed? Worse, to abuse not only his own body, but to do so while imagining Valjean's hands on him...

No. No, it was unbearable, and Javert, whose mind had reeled for so long, now for the first time saw very clearly that there was only one honorable thing to do: to leave behind this man's kindness, to return to Valjean his life and his bed, and take himself out of this life that was full of goodness and into which Javert had intruded to unwittingly bring with him the stain of his sin.

He had waited too long, that was the truth. Perhaps his life had been claimed by the devil, not Valjean, the moment he had sought to cast it away. Well, let the devil have him then. Javert did not care overly much for his soul, having had no use of it before; but he did care, he found, for Valjean's soul, and for Valjean's reputation, and for what Valjean might think of him.

He had stayed too long, and now it was time to leave. It was as easy as that, Javert told himself. He quickly washed the cooling semen from his skin, and then, embarrassed and deeply mortified, used the wet cloth to wash off what traces of it he had smeared against the sheets. His hands shook as he did this duty; best to burn it all, he thought, best to burn away all traces of his shame lest his sin stain Valjean... But no way to do that, not without waking everyone, and it was still so early that the apartment was quiet. The first rays of the morning sun had driven away the darkness, but when he looked outside, the sun had only barely begun to rise. The street was empty and deserted; not even the first water-carriers had begun to make the rounds.

Javert stripped off Valjean's nightshirt and scrubbed the stain from it as well. Then he dressed in his old clothes. He hurried, for it would not be long now until Toussaint would rise. When he finally left the room where he had spent the past few weeks, he encountered no one.


	4. The Workings of That Grand Machinery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert returns to work, overhears a suspicious conversation, and runs into old enemies.

While he waited to be called into M. Chabouillet's office, Javert thought again with guilt of the letter he had sent to Valjean two months ago. He should have been kinder with his words. He should have found a way to express his gratitude, even though setting pen to paper had hurt as much as forcing his bruised, beaten body back to his chamber from Valjean's apartment. He had pondered over that letter for so long that at last, he had realized with rising panic that Valjean would come and seek him out in his room if he did not let him know that he was well. So Javert had hastily scrawled down a few sentences – the words had been terse, and even now, weeks later, he tried to remember what he had put down exactly, for he feared that he might have been inadvertently hurtful. He had been abrasive with Valjean before, but it was a different thing to do so in person; at least that was what he had always told himself. Certainly Valjean had known that Javert had been grateful.

But would he still think Javert grateful after two lines of “I was well enough to leave” and “Please do not seek me out. I will return to work once I am healed”? Below, after a moment of deliberation, he had added in a shaking hand: “M. Fauchelevent, you have my gratitude. Let that be enough for you. I shall remember your purchase at the river.” Even now, he could not think of more that could have been said.

Javert clenched his hands. Well, it was too late now. What did it matter what Valjean thought? Perhaps it was best the man thought him ungrateful; he had always insisted on thinking too well of Javert. And better Valjean thought him ungrateful than depraved...

A flush rose to his face, and he ground his teeth as he tried to fend off that memory. Fortunately, at that moment, he was bid inside, and M. Chabouillet's scowl of displeasure did its part to drive all memories of that particular night from his mind.

“You are here to return to work?” M. Chabouillet began without preamble, and Javert grasped for words – never had M. Chabouillet deemed him unworthy of a greeting before. 

“Monsieur,” he said humbly. “Forgive me my long absence. I–”

“Yes, yes. I have heard it all, Javert. Please spare me your apologies.” M. Chabouillet scowled again, but then, looking up at Javert, he sighed and seemed to think better of it. 

“Javert, you have left me in quite a quandary. Well, you were wounded while you did your duty. That needs to count for something. So we will find work for you, but I am certain you will understand that I need to keep you out of the way.”

“Out of the way,” Javert echoed, uncertain.

“A position where you won't attract attention. Let me be blunt with you, Javert. That letter should have meant resignation; as you are still here, and apparently willing to work, and given your past conduct I cannot in good conscience turn you away... “

Javert's fingers clenched around the rim of his hat. M. Chabouillet's words churned in his stomach. Never before had he given a superior reason to chide him. Never before – except for that day in Montreuil, when a mayor had cited the law to remind him, Javert, of those rules that stated that M. Madeleine was his superior and could do as he saw fit in regards to that woman of the town. Fantine, he told himself again and thought of that moment when she had died, and of how her daughter had cheerfully offered him tea.

“Javert?” M. Chabouillet was watching him with a frown, and Javert tried in vain to shake off the ghosts of the past. It was not possible. They clung to him now, like stains of blood that could not be washed from clothes.

“Forgive me, Monsieur. I am fit to return to work, and as always willing to do whatever duty requires,” he said with humility, and then froze for a moment when he realized that he had just spoken a lie. Duty would have required to arrest Jean Valjean. Duty would have required to give out the address of that young man Valjean had dragged out of the sewers.

He had never spoken untruth before. Would he start now? Did he not have that duty towards Valjean as well now, who had pulled him from the river to set him down on the path of goodness? And yet, he could hardly tell M. Chabouillet, who already watched him with growing displeasure, that he was only content to do his duty while he could do it in good conscience and remain a good man… 

He took a deep breath – but this time, M. Chabouillet saved him from speaking those damning words. 

“Good. Back to work then with you. Henry is looking into trouble at the Marché des Innocents; get those merchants out of my ears. Or rather–” M. Chabouillet hesitated, and then, once more fixed Javert with a look of displeasure. 

“Quite a quandary indeed, Javert, and just when I could use a man I can trust to do his work. No, this case is not for you. Gisquet is too interested in it. I'll have to find someone else to look into this; damn those guilds and their eternal complaints. But I can't have you talk to anyone of importance now. Damn you, Javert. Off with you. Henry will have some sort of task where you can be useful.”

#

Javert returned to work not with the usual vigor, but pensively, his head bowed, his arms behind his back, much like that gloomy posture he had assumed when he had left behind Jean Valjean and made his way to the river. He had much to think about now, he who always had fulfilled his duty to the utmost satisfaction of his superiors without allowing doubt to enter his thoughts even once.

That was different now. Now he doubted his actions in leaving Valjean without a word. He owed the man his life. He owed him gratitude. The crumpled note he had sent him had led to a short answer, and Javert, who for the first time had found himself staring with such trepidation at a letter, had waited to read it until the evening had arrived. It had been short. It had been painfully impersonal – but then, what letter could contain the sensation that Valjean's presence evoked? What words could mimic the trust of allowing Valjean to press a blade to his throat, to shave him with such a careful touch? How could he expect a mere letter to convey that formerly unknown feeling of sitting in a spot of sunshine with Valjean by his side, a cup of steaming tea in his hand while Valjean quietly read to him, so lost in the words of the Bible that he did not even feel the intrusion of Javert's eyes lingering unchastely at where his shirt gaped open a little to reveal skin?

Javert could not expect any of these things from a letter. He told himself firmly that he should be relieved that there was no unbecoming emotion in the lines Valjean had penned – but it ached to read them, to imagine the distant politeness spoken in that voice he had come so well, and know that never again would he find that hand linger on his arm in concern, or find those eyes alight with quiet mirth when Javert tried in vain to jest.

No, it was for the best, and he had sent the gamin who had brought the letter away with a coin – but still he could not throw it out, and kept it in a drawer of his rickety bedside table, pressed carefully between the pages of his old Bible.

There was too much to do now to linger on thoughts of the past. Henry had looked at him with obvious pity – Henry, who used to look up at him and do as Javert bid. Now Henry sent younger men off to talk to informants, and went off himself to talk to merchants distressed by the recent brawls in the Marché des Innocents, and Javert found himself returned to that abominable figure of the police spy once more.

His hair was greasy, and matted with filth, rather than neatly caught at the back of his head by a ribbon. He slouched against a dirty wall, from where he had a good view of both a public well and the entrance of a little wine-shop that had in the past been a favorite hide-out for a known fence. This was one of those places where in the early mornings servants would gather, and a man like Javert might wait for one of those small jobs that kept a day laborer in possession of enough coin to buy bread and cheap wine to drown his sorrows.

Today had been quiet. Once more, Javert had felt the full weight of his uselessness. It was a soreness, like the lingering ache of his mending ribs, an internal bruise on the matter that made him _Javert_. It was a strange experience, and an entirely new torment for Javert who, before, had done the same duty when the need arose with great patience and satisfaction. But now he could no longer tell himself that a superior had given him an order, and that to do his duty meant following it to the best of his capabilities.

Now, he thought of the curt letter full of M. Chabouillet's displeasure when, after an agonizing night of little sleep, Javert had decided to pen another letter to M. Gisquet to outline how the work of the Prefecture was oftentimes unjust.

Javert watched as a sparrow hopped onto the wall he was leaning against, picking at the ground once, twice, then alighting again when it found that Javert had not scattered any crumbs.

He felt a hollow ache in his stomach at the reminder that it was nearly time for lunch. Well, not so for him today. He had been so frazzled this morning that he had forgotten to put a piece of bread into his pocket. Wryly he wondered if someone might put a penny into his hand so that he might go and visit a baker. Then he would be a beggar in truth. He could only hope that this time, Valjean would not come across him while giving out alms. 

His face burned as he thought once again of the reason why he had been forced to leave. Would Valjean know? He had tried as well as he could to scrub away all stains of his shame, but he still could not think of that night without flushing with deep humiliation. 

There was a sudden noise in one of the bushes that grew in front of a decrepit house to the left of him. The house was narrow, though it rose to the height of three stories, surrounded by looming tenements on either side that kept the entrance hidden in shadow. A tiny patch of earth that might have once passed for a garden had been turned by neglect into a thicket of thorny bushes which had long since strangled all other growth. 

Javert turned his head, careful to give the impression that he was watching the goings-on at the well. After a long moment, his ears picked up a word, and then more rustling.

He waited, his eyes half-closed, his head sunk forward so that his cap hid his eyes; to any observer, he would have seemed no more than yet another laborer down on his luck, whiling away the day here near the square waiting for work that would probably not come. Javert, on the other hand, was in his element. Gone were the thoughts that had held his mind clutched in that old spiral of despair; gone, too, was the ache of his barely mended body. Once more, the thrill of the hunt filled him with excitement. Javert, the old hound, who had seen himself abandoned by his master and allowed himself to dwell on thoughts of curling up forgotten in a corner, now once more felt that peculiar exhilaration of the dog that has taken a scent. Just as a hound knows the scent of the hare, so did Javert know the scent of crime. 

His patience was soon rewarded. He caught half a sentence, and though he did not move a single muscle, remaining slumped against the wall in bored disinterest, his eyes gleamed fiercely. That was argot he was well used to: in that thorny bush, some sort of transaction was taking place. Perhaps an exchange of information, or the hiring of a band of criminals not unlike Patron-Minette, which Javert himself had seen apprehended not too long ago. Were these the first stirrings of men eager to take up the business Patron-Minette had left behind?

The small square was busy with the comings and goings of carts and fiacres, the air filled by the chatter at the well and the calls of idling laborers: all that conspired against him now. Javert hunched his shoulders until all of his features seemed to vanish into the dusty, patched coat. There was a part where the wall formed a corner against the house, and where the stone had not crumbled under the onslaught of branches and roots; slowly, patiently, he shifted now towards it.

“He wants more,” he now heard. “More men, more–” 

Javert could not make out how the sentence ended. A fiacre went by. When the noise died down, the other was speaking: “I'll send to the market again. But it'll cost him.”

“Forget the market. Send them down. And hurry, he's getting impatient now, that affair with the Rue du–”

Another fiacre; this time, the clatter of the wheels on the plaster was enough to break up the conversation. Javert remained motionless, sunk into his coat; not even the gleaming of his eyes was visible from beneath his cap, although he waited with great patience for the mouse to escape from its hole, his claws already unsheathed to sink into his prey.

Long minutes passed. At last, a small, thin figure came out from behind the wall. Javert did not move and did not look up, dozing against the stone of the wall, and the man did not turn to check his surroundings. Instead, after another furtive glance at the well where two water carriers had started an argument, the man slunk away, keeping close to the line of ramshackle houses.

Javert rose. Silently, he moved closer to the secret meeting-place, but when at last he managed to get a good look at the thorny bushes through a hole in the crumbling wall, he saw to his disappointment that the space was empty. The other man was gone. 

The first man was still sauntering down the streets, little more than a moving shadow keeping close enough to the walls of the houses that it was becoming difficult to make out his figure. After a moment's hesitation, Javert began to follow him. If he was unlucky, he might give himself away – all the same, this seemed to him the best use of his time, for none of the laborers near the well had raised in him the instant suspicion that this short conversation had managed to do.

Again Javert cursed the fiacre. He had not been able to make out the name of the street the men had talked about – but with some luck, perhaps this man would lead him to his destination.

The walk was long. Javert, who still grew breathless very quickly and who had not yet regained the full measure of strength he had once possessed, found himself grateful that the man did not seem to be in a hurry. At the same time, this was troubling to him, for it made following the man difficult indeed – at one point, he was forced to hesitate behind a corner for so long to arouse no suspicion that he nearly lost him.

At last, near the Rue des Lombards, Javert watched the man duck into a wineshop, and Javert once more took up watch.

The man did not leave the wineshop. Half an hour passed. Javert began to feel uneasy. Had he lost his prey? Had the hare escaped after he had faithfully trailed him for so long? But Javert had watched the entrance: no one had gone out. 

Perhaps there was another exit, he thought and moved a little closer. Perhaps – but the house had no backyard; the houses here were narrow and old, and the wineshop seemed to him one of those small places where necessity forces tables and chairs and bottles into a space that is little more than a hole: a cavern of cramped darkness, with two small, dusty windows that keep out more light than they let in, and candles darkening the ceiling with soot even at noon.

Javert thrust a hand into his whiskers and pulled at them as he deliberated. He could go in – that was one choice. The more dangerous choice, but he had faith in his disguise. Who would recognize him as Javert, that feared agent of authority who had sent so many of Paris' underworld to La Force, to the galleys? Even more than the disguise, long illness had transformed him; he was thin where he had been lean, gaunt and gray where he had once stood with the terrible strength of the avenging angel. Clad in dirty, worn garments and in his current unkempt state, he appeared a much different man – an old beggar, or someone little better than a beggar, too down on his luck to be a spy.

At least that was what he hoped, and after deliberating, he made his decision and moved forward. He had barely made it two houses closer when a sound behind him made him stop. Before he could turn, there was the familiar feeling of a knife pressed to his back.

His lips twisted in bitter amusement. Certainly Valjean would not be pleased to hear that he had died with a knife in his ribs when Valjean had taken so much effort to encourage them to mend. But no – were he dead, all of Valjean's fears would die with him–

The thought was strangely troubling. When he had cast himself into the Seine, he had thought that at least he would do right by Valjean; that Valjean would forget him, would perhaps think him mad, should he read of his death, and then continue his life without sparing any further thought for Javert. Now, his heart ached when he imagined Valjean relieved about his death.

He knew that he had forfeited all rights to even hope for such a thing, but his life, as terrible and tarnished as it was, had become something small and precious under Valjean's hands. In Valjean's every reluctant touch, he had felt that will urge him to live, to heal. Although he knew that there was no reason at all that Valjean should miss the closeness of his former enemy, Javert found his heart suddenly contract – not with fear of the blade and the death it might bring, but fear that his death would cause no grief to this man whom he had not been able to banish from his thoughts no matter how hard and long he walked the streets of Paris or tried to tire his mind with the words of the Bible.

"Well now! What have we here?" 

The knife poked him until he had to give in to its command and allow himself to be pushed into a shady doorway, where the narrow entrance with its crumbling plaster would shield what was about to happen from the view of any passers-by.

"Quick now! Who sent you? What do you want?"

Javert could not place the voice. It was not one of the men he had overheard – but also, not one of those infamous criminals he had come to know through the years of his service. Well, a simple look-out then, he thought, and deliberated whether the man might be inexperienced enough to be overwhelmed. The blade against his ribs had not moved; Javert supposed the man had experience enough as a knifer. He pressed his lips together – he would have to dare it; if he timed it right, and took the man by surprise, a shallow gash might be all–

"Come now, do hurry up," a different voice said. Javert tensed. That voice he recognized. 

"Finish that business. Your man–"

"I didn't mean anything by it!" Javert said even as he hunched in on himself, his shoulders round so that they nearly swallowed up his strong neck, his head drooping forward even more as he slowly turned. He spoke in a soft, timid voice, but with that particular eagerness shared by men who feel a knife prodding at their skin, and those who see a deal before them. 

"I heard him talk of how he needed more men. I haven't done anything; they said to me, there, talk to that man over there, he might have something to do for a man with your talents."

It was a gamble, for that second voice, which he had recognized with a shock, belonged to Montparnasse, of Patron-Minette. 

The man with the knife hesitated, and so did Javert, tense now from a fear that his disguise and his long illness might not have been enough – if he recognized Montparnasse, that devilish dandy might recognize him in turn. 

But then, after a moment had passed, the youth turned away with a disgusted sound. "Make it quick. Clean up after you. Then get back, and tell your man I'm off to the Marais again. He'll have to hurry. And have more crates ready at midnight."

Montparnasse's fashionable boots were loud enough on the stone that Javert could hear him turn the corner – and then Javert moved. 

The long convalescence had left a weakness in his bones that had not been there before: he tired earlier, moved more slowly. And yet he took the man by surprise, who perhaps had not expected Javert to be quite that thin beneath the layers of his coat. The knife that had been pressed to his ribs only cut a glancing blow across his chest as Javert twisted out of his grasp and turned with the agility of the threatened cat, his own large hands coming to clamp down around the man's arm.

The blade glanced across his arm next; this time, the cut was deep enough to part layers of coat and shirt. Javert, who was filled both by a righteous fury and that terrible joy that comes from having reached the end of the chase, which he had thought he would have to forgo forever, had the man disarmed in a heartbeat. During that short scuffle, the man's head had hit the doorway; now plaster crumbled and covered the man's hair with flakes of white as he reeled and then slumped to the ground, dazed and helpless. 

Javert would have liked to clap the man in irons and drag him to the nearest station-house to see what answers they could pull from him – but there was also the enigma of Montparnasse, who was still at large and presently moving out of Javert's reach with every passing heartbeat.

Javert made his decision. He left the man crumpled against the wall – with luck, he told himself, he would pass a policeman, or a station-house, and they would collect him before he had regained his senses. But what mattered now was that infamous youth who was without a doubt the main perpetrator here. 

Javert had learned enough in a decade of prowling the streets of Paris to know that if a member of Patron-Minette was involved, there might be a yet bigger catch to make for one with the patience to follow that treacherous trail of crime to its root. So Javert left the man behind, his knife safely tucked into his own pocket, and slunk after Montparnasse, careful this time to stay out of sight so that he would not be caught again. It was easier this time: the boy had said he was returning to the Marais, and so for the longest time Javert was content to keep him just barely in sight.

He lost him halfway down the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine. 

Javert waited patiently at first. But when it began to grow dark, and the man who came to light the streetlamps gave him an unfriendly look when he found him loitering against a nearby wall, Javert decided that at last, his luck had forsaken him. Whether he had realized that he was being followed or not, Montparnasse seemed to have taken a different way back, or gone into hiding. Either way, something was afoot; Patron-Minette was involved, and Javert, filled for the first time in months with that breathless excitement of sensing his prey close by, felt that the end of the hunt was near, if only he could be patient now and allow his prize to settle into the trap. All he had to do was to keep a close look on these streets.

#

"No," Gisquet said, and then he laughed. "Absolutely not! Have you lost your wits, man?"

"Monsieur le Préfet," Javert said humbly, "please, let me explain. It was a member of Patron-Minette, who was–"

"Patron-Minette do not worry me." Gisquet leaned forward. Javert made himself face his superior's ire – he deserved it, he supposed; it was unheard of to send letters of criticism such as he had. He could not expect leniency from the Prefect. 

And yet. What he had written in his letter was the truth. And what he had observed now was also the truth. No, Patron-Minette was still at large, and Javert felt that moment of queasiness as he remembered one of the men he himself had arrested in the Gorbeau house, and who had never arrived at La Force. Such things, too, were not spoken of. Such things, too, could not be criticized; and then, he had already angered his superior, so much so in fact that M. Chabouillet had told him in no uncertain terms to make certain to avoid all attention for the coming months.

But what use was it to remain silent when there were men at large who would murder for a few sous, while other men might murder and escape unscathed if they were murderers in the employ of the police?

Javert's hands curled around the rim of his hat, his knuckles white with tension. "Monsieur, all I ask for is the use of a few men to observe that wineshop–"

"No," Gisquet said again.

"–and the goings-on in the Marais–"

"No!" This time Gisquet laughed in disbelief. One more question and Javert supposed he would be shouted at.

"Or, as Patron-Minette is involved, an inquiry into the disappearance of one Claquesous, arrested at the Gorbeau house, who vanished from the carriage on the way to La Force–"

Gisquet's fist hit his desk. His face was livid with rage. "The devil, Javert, what's wrong with you? I'm half of a mind to have you removed from the police force! Out with you! I do not want to see you again for at least a year, do you understand? Out! What the devil is Chabouillet thinking, you're mad, deranged, not fit for work at all! Out of my office with you this instant – let Chabouillet deal with you!"

Javert bowed mechanically and took his leave, a flush high on his cheeks at the words hurled his way. Well, the Prefect was probably right, he thought as he walked calmly out of the Prefecture, ignoring the look of the secretary in the ante-room. He _was_ mad. He was quite mad. He could not keep criticizing the Prefect if he wanted to keep doing his work.

And he did want to keep doing his work – didn't he? There had never been anything else for him. Was he not too old by now to learn new tricks? 

At the same time, that awful awareness of the injustices he had committed could not be shaken. It sat on his shoulder like a tormenting demon, and whispered relentlessly, "The Prefect will know if Claquesous was paid from the Prefecture’s coffers", and, "Should murderers be allowed to attire themselves in the clothes of justice?"

He supposed he could have sent it in a letter instead. Perhaps the secretary would simply have thrown it out, and his own starved conscience might have been satisfied with that.

No, he then thought blearily when he again remembered how all of Patron-Minette had been in his grasp, and how few of them had remained under lock and key. No. He did not think his conscience would ever be satisfied with him again.

It was a sorry state of affair for a policeman to be in. To criticize one's superior, to distrust one's colleagues, to harbor a heretofore unknown suspicion towards the workings of the grand machinery that up until that fateful day a few months ago had seemed to him to be the great structure that kept society alive and well – all of that could only lead to great misery and unhappiness. Who was Javert but one small cog in that great system? How could he now dare to protest against something that was certainly too large and important for him to fully understand its uses and consequences? Did he now aspire to question the mysteries of his superiors, of men of state?

But Javert understood crime. For the police to hide a murderer like Claquesous and refuse to hunt down another member of that infamous gang, a man who had walked the Marais in broad daylight, no doubt working on some new, nefarious plan, simply because a Prefect's dignity had been insulted by an inferior's letter – certainly that could not be right, neither in the eyes of God nor in the eyes of society. Nor, his mind supplied unhelpfully, would this be right in the eyes of Jean Valjean, who knew more about right and wrong and the choices that had to be made than any other man Javert had known.

Javert nearly laughed aloud in the streets in his despair as he caught himself contemplating to return to Valjean's apartment to ask his opinion.

No. He was indeed as mad as the Prefect thought him.

#

Slouching quietly in lonely corners of the Marais gave Javert a lot of time to contemplate this strange, vast plain that now stretched out in his mind, where before he had only ever seen a clearly delineated path. It was, in fact, not very difficult to find out what was good, and what was not. Yet doing what was good, that was still difficult, for it seemed to him that all the paths of life open to him led away from it.

He remembered an old conversation: “Being kind is very easy,” he had said, and now he wanted to laugh with desperation, for it had turned out that it was not. He had thought, once, that being kind, and doing good, meant to willfully turn a blind eye to the truths of society; that it was not simply naive, but actively harmful to coddle those that were below society the way Montreuil's mayor had done. Leave charity to the church. Such concerns were the rightful realm of the priest, while Javert's realm was the street, and the defense of it against those who had been cast from it and had no right to try and reclaim it.

He remembered how some of the men would jeer and be eager to sign up for one of those raids upon a house of prostitutes to control that the necessary papers were in order, and that there were no health concerns. He, Javert, had never jeered – but neither had he seen anything wrong with the humiliation heaped upon those who could not defend themselves against the eyes of his colleagues. Any weapon had seemed justified to remind them that they had no place in society and should remember that.

Tiredly, he rubbed at his face. Perhaps he should write a letter to the Prefect and outline suggestions to make such operations less humiliating. He exhaled deeply, then smiled without humor. Perhaps he would write the letter and keep it in his notebook, together with the other letters he had written but not sent, after his last run-in with the Prefect. He knew that was cowardly. He could feel the weight of them in his room: a quiet chastisement whenever he left without taking them out with him. 

But even so, were he to send that suggestion now, he would lose his position for good, and what, then, of Montparnasse? He could keep observing him even without the papers that identified him as an agent of the police – but what would happen when Javert found him?

Viciously, he pulled at his whiskers again. No. He needed to bring this to an end, at least: this one case that still weighed so heavily on his mind. Then he would send his collected letters and accept his dismissal.

He rubbed his face in frustration. Damn these tormenting thoughts he could not escape. His skin felt rough – his disguise meant that he had not shaved for a few days now, although thinking of that irrevocably brought up memories of Valjean's hand carefully pressing the cold razor to his throat, fingers gripping his chin with a gentle firmness. 

Javert scowled. He stood up resolutely from where he had whiled away the morning in a quiet spot that gave him a good view of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine. Montparnasse had not shown up; Javert supposed he could just as well take another walk through the quarter, and see if he could spy any of the usual suspects or informants. Anything was better than remembering Valjean's unbearable kindness.

It took an hour of wandering the streets aimlessly to stop thinking about Valjean. Once, he thought that he saw a familiar figure – a slim, elegantly-clad dandy toying with a cane. But when he came closer, the man stepped into a fiacre, and when it moved past him, Javert saw enough of his face to realize that this was not Montparnasse, but some upstanding citizen who owned property here in the Marais. Once more he felt the familiar, hollow ache of disappointment.

Perhaps dismissal would not be so bad. Perhaps he had lost his touch after the long illness, and there was indeed no place for him now with the police of Paris. 

Perhaps, for a man who had realized that it was not easy at all to be kind, it would also not ever be easy to be other than what he had been. 

He rubbed his brow. How did Valjean live like this?

Then, chance intervened, as though the memory of Jean Valjean had called forth some manifestation of the goodness that always surrounded that man. 

There was a moving reflection in the window of the house to Javert's right. This figure, too, seemed familiar, although it was not the young dandy he had been on the lookout for. It was the figure of an older woman hurrying along with a basket in her hand, and when Javert turned, he saw there on the other side of the street, walking briskly towards the Rue de L'Echarpe, Toussaint, Valjean's serving woman.

He had no good reason to follow her. He still had found no trace of Patron-Minette, or of any other crime to be committed here in the quarter. Duty called for him to continue his vigil.

Instead, Javert saw himself abandon the call of duty and follow slowly behind her, his legs heavy, his heart suddenly light at the terrible, overwhelming happiness that had sprung up within him at the thought that he might catch one more glimpse of Valjean.


	5. The Old Watchdog Lifts His Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert overhears a conversation, follows the trail of crime and sees how Valjean has been faring.

He did not have to follow Toussaint very far. She walked along the Rue de L'Echarpe, then the Rue Saint-Louis, and Javert, who had recognized the streets, felt his heart sink when she turned into the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. 

He would not see Valjean then, not even from afar. This was where he and Valjean had brought the boy that night. Perhaps she was carrying a message from Cosette. Or perhaps – how long had it been? Was the boy hale once more? Nine months had passed since that day at the barricade. Perhaps they were wed now. Perhaps Valjean had the life he deserved: the house in the Marais, the garden, the daughter who loved him, the son whose life he had saved. Valjean would be safe at last from the demons of the past.

Javert was the last demon that remained, and he knew that he had no right to trouble Valjean's thoughts. Were he to come to Valjean now, he would indeed be a nightmare appearing before him in broad daylight. Javert had realized too late that Valjean was a saint indeed; he deserved light and warmth, not the darkness and cold of Javert’s shadows.

No, Javert could not taint his happiness by bringing with him memories of pain and grief. He would stay away from Valjean, as much as he craved the touch of his hand and the warmth of his smile. But that was the crux of the matter: he also craved a repetition of that sweet moment when Valjean's hair had brushed his lips; he yearned for the scent of his skin, the ecstatic beating of his own heart at the sight of Valjean's bare throat–

Javert drew a shaking hand across his eyes as if to ward off the thoughts he could not afford. No, such things could not be indulged; to give in to his fantasies would only shame him further. Better to be forgotten; better to be remembered only with a faint approval for the way he had allowed Valjean to keep his well-earned happiness, leaving his life without protest.

He should not feel this nearly painful need to see Valjean, to admire those strong shoulders, to revel in the calmness of this man who always carried such a heavy burden with him. He should not want–

He halted when he saw Toussaint walk past the carriage gate where they had delivered that night what he had then thought the corpse of the boy Marius. Toussaint walked on; Javert followed slowly on the other side of the street, waiting in the shadow of a large hawthorn bush still in flower until she stopped in front of a smaller gate and stepped through, closing it behind her.

Well, Javert thought to himself even as he crossed the street, it was as he had thought. She was here with a message; or maybe she did indeed live here now with the family and had been out to go to the market. In any case, it meant he would not see Jean Valjean. That was well enough; he should feel relief, not that strangely painful disappointment. His heart might crave these things as much as it liked; he had not asked for a heart, much less a love-sick one. It was bad enough to have to suffer its cravings in the quiet of his bedroom; he would not give in to its demands in public.

When he arrived at the small door, he saw that it was made from wrought iron. Though sturdy, it seemed to have been only recently repaired, or made easily usable; weeds had been cut away around the gate, and the hinges still gleamed with a liberal application of oil, although the keyhole itself was rusted.

Javert later told himself that he had not intended to illegally enter. He, Javert, would never trespass upon the grounds of a bourgeois. There had been no sign of any danger or crime, so he had neither reason nor right to do what he did – which was to rest his hand on the handle, and probe it very carefully, and see with bated breath that if he pushed just right, all the oil that some overly zealous groundskeeper had used to keep the metal from squeaking was now lubrication enough to have the door spring open even without a key, and allow him to step through and close it behind him, all without making a single sound to give himself away.

There was no one in sight. To his left was a hedge higher than his head; to his right the wall that enclosed the house turned away, a swathe of grass spreading from the stone wall to the house. On that lawn stood a shed, large enough to hold a carriage, and although the grass was cut and the gravel on the ground was undisturbed, it seemed that this part of the garden was not often used. 

Before him, a path followed the hedge; he followed it in turn, eager to leave the empty space to his right. Although it was quiet and no one was to be seen, he still feared that any moment someone might come out of the shed. And what would he say then? He had no reason to be here.

Once the path reached the house, he found himself in a new quandary. There were windows that looked out; and although this seemed to be the part of the house where kitchen and storage rooms were located, his heart still beat fast in his chest at the thought that he might be discovered.

What might M. Gisquet have to say to this?

A door fell shut. The sound went through Javert like a shot. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen – then there was the sound of steps on the gravel that lined the small courtyard here, and Javert looked around wildly. There was no cover – he could not make it to the shed in time, certainly he would be seen! But there, in front of him, was a small window, no higher than his knees; it seemed to allow light to fall down into a room in the cellar, and was lined by bushes. Next to the bushes, there stood a pile of empty wooden crates, as though a delivery from the market had arrived this morning.

Javert ducked behind a bush. His heart thudded wildly in his chest. His ribs ached again as he waited, praying that whoever was coming would leave by the large carriage gate instead. 

The ground sloped down towards the house here; if he pressed himself down into the furrow between the bush and the wall, perhaps – with luck – he might escape notice. The crates would help too, he thought, and contemplated whether he might have time to pull them closer – but then two men came around the corner of the house, and Javert felt his breath escape his chest in shock as he recognized the young man wearing a shabby coat of velvet. That was Montparnasse. What was Montparnasse doing in this house, where Jean Valjean lived with his new family?

Javert ground his teeth against his helpless ire when he realized what was afoot. Patron-Minette knew who Valjean was. They were blackmailing him. That must be what this was about, what other reason could there be to find them here–

"No, leave the crates. Who cares about crates," the other man said, and they stopped a few feet away from where Javert was hiding.

Javert breathed shallowly. From his position, he could only see their boots, although there was a strange familiarity to the man's voice.

"As you say." Montparnasse laughed softly. "How's it going with the old fool?"

"Leave that to me. It's none of your business." A boot nudged the crates. Dried dirt rained down on Javert. It smelled damp and strangely moldy.

"No. I don't want you back here; it's difficult enough–"

"Ah, but to have me deliver crates, I'm good enough for that? Don't forget what you promised. I'm no porter, this is not–”

"Enough. I need you in the Rue du Babylone next Monday. Don't forget."

Montparnasse affected a yawn. "Little to do there for me. Let me help with the house. I have a knife in my pocket; I can–"

"No," the other man said. His voice was taut. There was a moment of silence, and then Javert could see Montparnasse step back. 

"Do as you please. It's your money."

"Leave. And don't forget. An hour past midnight–"

"I won't! You don't forget your promises." 

There was the sound of gravel beneath boots as Montparnasse left at last – back towards from where they had appeared, Javert noted with relief, his heart still beating painfully fast in his chest. 

The other man had remained. Javert could only see his boots. They were polished to a black shine, made from a fine leather and had not seen much wear, although Javert noted that damp soil clung to the soles even though the path through the garden was strewn with dry gravel. The streets in the Marais? No – not unless the man had hidden in a garden somewhere, just as Javert now did.

After a long moment, the man turned and walked back towards the house. Javert dared a glimpse from behind the bush, but it was to no avail. There seemed something slightly familiar to the figure, but this was not the man he had followed to the wineshop – nor, he thought, any of the men he had encountered in his investigations during the past year.

He was well dressed. To any observer, he would be just another bourgeois wandering a garden in the Marais. Javert frowned at himself. Should he suspect such a man of criminal activities? But then, no matter how well-dressed this man appeared, he had been in the company of a known member of Patron-Minette. 

Javert smiled grimly. Here, at least, his new-found conscience was no burden. Bourgeois or not, the man had aroused his suspicion. And then, this man had given orders to Montparnasse! No, this stranger was not victim but perpetrator. If Javert's instincts had not abandoned him, here was the planning of a crime – in the garden of a bourgeois no less!

And now that garden was home to Jean Valjean as well. Javert looked around with renewed panic, as though any moment that man might come around the corner and find himself assaulted by Patron-Minette – or worse, find himself face to face with Javert, whose life he had saved only to be stained by Javert's uncouth fantasies, albeit unknowingly.

Javert wiped his brow with trembling fingers. It did not matter, he told himself. There was something wrong. Patron-Minette was involved; he had every right to prevent a crime from being committed here . He would stay out of sight, but he would make certain that no harm came to his savior. Valjean would never know – but perhaps in such a way, he might buy back his life from the man who had taken hold of it.

But would he ever be able to buy back his soul? He could not answer his own question. His chest ached anew with that sharp pain, as though he had been stabbed with a knife, and he remembered the way Valjean's hair had brushed against his lips.

 _I am damned_ , he thought, burying his face in his hands.

That was when he heard the voice.

For a moment, he doubted his senses. It could not be; certainly this was just a mirage conjured by his body's sinful cravings; why would–

And then he remembered that Valjean had every right to be in this place. After all, he had invaded the garden because deep in his heart, he had hoped for a glimpse of Valjean – not to speak to him, not to make him aware of his presence, for Javert knew that this craving within his breast should not be encouraged, and that the sight of him would just bring the memory of old pain for Valjean.

But to see him! To allow himself one glimpse of that face that had bent over him in worry so often, that had been all that stood between him and death for so many weeks – wanting such a thing was also a weakness, but one Javert could not resist. Perhaps, he told himself, that ache pulsating in his chest, perhaps to see Valjean's happiness here amidst his new family, where he had all the comfort and love that a man like him deserved, would make it easier to accept that Javert had done the right thing.

Yes: as painful as it was, here was one decision he could not regret. He doubted that it could make up for all the wrongs he had done Valjean, but at least Javert would cause him no further pain.

Valjean's voice was soft, but there was a quiet happiness in it. Javert could not quite make out the words and looked around in search. Perhaps he could catch a glimpse through a window, if he could just find out where that sound came from!

But when he moved away from the wall towards the windows he had skirted past earlier, the sound grew even softer; retracing his steps with a frown, he found to his great surprise that the voice was clearest when he stopped near the bushes once more. Yet how could this be? There was no window here, only the rough wall facing him.

After a moment, he realized that the voice came in fact from somewhere close to his feet. There, where the house met the ground, was the small, narrow window that he had assumed earlier led to some storage room in the cellar. The little decline that had saved him from the eyes of Montparnasse and his companion allowed light to fall in through that small window, and his heart began to beat faster once more as he crouched down and carefully peered into the window.

The glass was dirty. Although it seemed that someone had recently brushed away dirt and dead leaves, there were still remains of spiderwebs in the corners. A layer of fine dust from the gravel made it difficult to see much. He squinted and dared to press closer against the window, praying that no servant would enter and look up. 

There was a fireplace in one corner that was lit. Two chairs stood in front of the fire, and there– His heart clenched, and he tightened his hands to fists to fight down the sudden surge of helpless joy.

There sat Valjean, and next to him, his daughter. 

How strange to see him again so unexpectedly. Never before had Javert felt such an emotion: how could the sight of one man drive blood through his body until his face flushed with heat, and his lungs ached with the need to call out, to speak some word of greeting, all to have this man turn his head and look at him again and take his hand and say, "Are you well, Javert?" To have those fingers pressed to his brow once more; to hear this man read out psalms or prayers, or from the travels of Bougainville and Defoe; to return to that chamber once more and watch the sunlight move across the wall and drink tea while Jean Valjean looked at him as if–

No, he told himself, pressing trembling fingers to his brow. No, he could not do this. Had he not done damage enough already? With shame he made himself remember how he had stained this good man's sheets with his vulgar desires. Could he face this man after doing such a thing? Could he demand forgiveness, grace, kindness, after he had slapped away the hand offered in friendship with such an act?

No, he told himself again, and then forced himself to step back. As he left the grounds of the Gillenormands, his chest ached with a deep pain even though the ribs had long mended. It was not until he sat tired and lonely in his drab chamber once more late at night that he remembered the look of that cellar, and wondered why Valjean and his daughter would seek to hide away in such a part of the house.

#

"No."

It was a little more hesitant from Henry's lips, and Javert could see that there was obvious regret on Henry's face – but still, Henry shook his head, his voice firm even though he looked away to the documents strewn across his desk.

"I am very sorry, Javert, but you know how it is. Especially now; see how many complaints there are left – why, the merchants from Les Halles alone– But never mind. I can't agree to such a thing."

Javert stood silently before him. He had told himself that to come and beg Henry for leave to have the house in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire observed, and more men to watch the neighborhood, was no more humiliating than begging the commissaire for support had been back when it was Javert and not Henry who had his trust.

What a turn his life had taken that he had to humble himself before a younger man now: a man whom he had looked down on, had given orders to, had perhaps also grudgingly hoped would learn from his example in time.

But now it was Henry who could command him, and it was Henry's decision how to proceed. Javert, who had once prided himself only on his aptitude for the hunt, this singular talent to follow his prey right back to its hole, Javert could only bow his head and try to swallow down the sour humiliation that congealed in his stomach.

Well, he had tried to make Henry see reason, he told himself. It was out of his hands now. Was this not what he had wanted? It was not his decision to make. It was Henry's conscience that would have to carry that burden.

Maybe, Javert thought wryly, he should have known that it was not so easy. His conscience, this monstrous thing that wore the face of his own terribleness and gnawed with cruel resolution at his insides, bared its teeth. Javert shuddered when he thought of how those fangs would pierce the soft, vulnerable heart that had grown in his chest.

"Henry." Javert swallowed, and then looked up and made himself face the man. Good God, Henry looked so young still. Henry was little more than a child. He was younger than Javert had been, that day he came to Montreuil… And older than Valjean had been when they had riveted the collar behind his neck. His heart contracted painfully.

"Please," Javert said. His voice did not tremble, and that monster of a conscience within him paused. "I do not ask you lightly. I know how busy you are. But I tell you, if Patron-Minette is involved, there is something bigger afoot. If you send out just a few men, we might catch them all, end it before–"

"End what, Javert?" Henry looked uncomfortable. He seemed as unhappy about this sudden reversal of their roles as Javert – or perhaps, Javert thought with bitterness, it was just that Henry regretted Javert's return, after Henry had grown used to his new position during his absence. Javert was the only one who did not fit in anymore. For Henry, it seemed to have been easy enough to find his place and learn how to send out men to do their work instead of following the orders of Javert.

"You do not even know what it is you are chasing. I am sorry, Javert, but my answer is still no. I have no men to follow your mysteries. If you can give me a reason..."

There was that final conversation, Javert thought, wondering whether that would make a difference to Henry. He had the name of the street and a date. 

Javert did not quite trust Henry not to botch such a delicate operation – if Patron-Minette was involved, there would be hardened criminals in wait for a raid on a house, for murder or a robbery. Yet still, was that not better than taking his chances and going to observe the crimes of this gang of villains on his own, without backup? Furthermore, something had been niggling at him ever since he had heard Montparnasse talk to his partner in crime. The Rue du Babylone had seemed familiar, although he could not say why. It was a quiet street, no place for villainous creatures to gather, and so he had supposed that it had to be a robbery, or perhaps another attempt at blackmail...

He thought of the situation he had stopped in the Gorbeau tenement a year ago, and suddenly he frowned. He had not paid much attention to the victim at the time; his focus had been on Patron-Minette. But now his brow creased, and he sought to remember the man who had been bound to the bed. Too much time had passed, but might that not have been...

All the worse if there was another connection! And would that not also prove his first instinct true? Blackmail! What other reason might there have been for such ruffians to seek out the new home of Jean Valjean?

For a moment Javert's whiskers quivered, and he felt the surge of insult when he thought of how Valjean had not trusted him with such a thing. Should not Valjean have sought him out and asked for his help? Was this not what Javert, loyal guard-dog, had been shaped for? The hunt of men like Montparnasse, the guarding of good, upstanding citizens like– like Valjean?

How strange to think such a thing, and to feel in his heart that it was right!

Javert opened his mouth, but then he stopped, for he finally remembered just where he had heard the name of the street before. The Rue du Babylone...

"Is there anything else, Javert?"

All of a sudden, Javert felt disgust well up within him. To stand here and beg Henry for leniency and support – was that who he had become? He could not help Valjean. He had lost even that power, if he had ever held it. Some guard-dog he was. They had leashed him, and now he could only pull at the rusty chain in impotent rage and bark hoarsely at the wolves he saw moving in the shadows.

"There is nothing else. I am sorry I have taken up your time." He inclined his head and turned to leave, choosing to ignore the look of regret that was now on Henry's face. They had all made their choices. Henry preferred the approval of the commissaire. Javert preferred the hunt, and if he had to tear the old chain in order to pursue the wolves into the dark, to sink his teeth into their warm flesh, well then! That was what he would do.

When he left, there was a grim satisfaction on his face, for now he thought he knew where his path led him. The Rue du Babylone. Next Monday, after midnight, the man had said. But he had heard that name mentioned earlier, weeks ago. The Rue du Babylone, the girl had said. He was certain now. Valjean's daughter and Toussaint had been there.

Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it was his own humiliation and the slow realization of how useless he had grown that made him grasp at shadows. But somewhere within him, the old watchdog had lifted his head, and his old eyes had still been clear and sharp, and he had bared his teeth to the night-wind, scenting the movement of the wolves in the distance.

No. Javert did not believe in coincidences anymore.

#

Another morning was spent uselessly sitting in the shadows, watching the goings-on in the Marais. Bitterly, Javert wondered whether this was simply Henry humoring him. Had he even believed him when he had reported his first encounter with Montparnasse?

For a moment Javert imagined Henry and the commissaire discussing him. “That Javert, he has cracked. He is making up stories now to reclaim his old fame. Let him sit in the cold until that teaches him a lesson.” 

Yes, that was what they would say. He raised a weary hand to his brow, then grimaced at the dirt that stained his fingers. 

No, better to go to the Rue du Babylone on his own, before that fateful night would arrive; see for himself what he could find out. He had no use for free hours anyway. His sleep was restless; the waking hours were worse. Better to fill this day with work and the evening with inquiries into that street. Perhaps then, when he returned to his chamber, he would be tired enough to sleep without dreams tormenting him.

An hour passed that way. Very little of note happened in the square, save that two liveried servants nearly came to blows at the fountain. Javert had watched the fight with complacent detachment; here at last was a case that did not weigh too heavily on his conscience, for the matter was so trivial that clearly both were at fault for letting it come to blows.

He felt a slight warmth of contentment curl in his chest. It was good to feel that echo of days past, when he had never known the writhing of doubt within his soul. Selfishly, he decided to cling to it for as long as he could. He already knew it would not last, but here, at least, was one choice he did not have to make, and one choice where both people involved were equally guilty.

It was at that moment that he saw him. And perhaps, had he not turned away from the fight, he might have missed him, for the man moved silently, his head bent, everything around him giving off the impression of something small and frail, although Javert knew that those bent shoulders were still broad and strong beneath the coat. 

That was Jean Valjean, unmistakably, walking along the Rue de L'Echarpe. 

Javert frowned. What was Valjean doing here? Why was he walking, instead of taking a fiacre?

Javert could think of no good reason, except perhaps Valjean's strange modesty. Perhaps he had gone out to visit a family in need in a poorer quarter? And yet, to walk all that way...

Without conscious thought, he found himself following Valjean. He stayed in the shadows, lingering behind corners or trees, led by instinct rather than deliberation. After all, Valjean was no criminal. He had no reason to follow him, and yet–

For a moment, he froze, surprised at where his line of thought had led him. Had it truly been so easy to forget the past of this man, which had once driven him to denounce a superior and later, to hunt him through the streets of Paris? Was it truly this easy to think such a thought, to say to himself “he is no criminal” although he knew better? Was he, Javert, now lying to himself in order to exonerate his conscience?

But no. Valjean had paid for what paltry crime he had committed long ago. Were long years of torment not enough to cancel out a crime so small? And if he thought of the scale that balanced Valjean's soul, was it not true that the weight of a loaf of bread would not move the scale even the slightest fraction, weighed down as the other end was by a life that had been devoted to doing good – doing what was right instead of simply lawful?

In frustration Javert pulled at his whiskers again. No, it was not easy to be kind at all. It was a torment. How he wished he could tell him that now. 

Valjean's route was no surprise to Javert, for he followed the Rue de L'Echarpe, turned into the Rue Saint-Louis, and at last, reached the by now familiar Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Javert had not been able to make himself approach Valjean. After all, what could he bring him but new pain, and the fear that he was here to arrest him? Why should Jean Valjean of all people believe Javert changed? No, it was kinder for both of them to hang back and watch from the shadows. There was a lightness to Valjean's steps, and he moved quickly; Javert thought he must be eager to return home after his walk.

He imagined once more what it would be like to walk up to Valjean, to smile at him and take his hand and wish him a good day and exchange the sort of pleasantries neighbors might exchange. Would it not be good to feel the weight of Valjean's hand in his own and remember the way those strong arms had pulled him out of the grasp of death?

But no; such things could not be. Should he go back home after pretending that he deserved the friendship of such a man, only to use that very same hand to...

He swallowed, sickened by where his thoughts had led him, and by the heat it had brought to his cheeks. Valjean had entered already, although he too used the small backdoor that led into the garden, Javert realized. He filed that knowledge away without further thought. Valjean had always been a private man, even in Montreuil. He had thought it suspicious, at first; then, he had thought it must come from fear, and felt validated in his suspicions.

Now he thought that Valjean was simply a man who could not bear the recognition his goodness deserved. How strange. He had lived in this man's home, slept in his bed, worn his clothes – and still he did not understand him. It was almost as if Valjean was afraid that others might recognize him for the good man he was!

This time, Javert knew how to open the small gate without making a sound. He knew, too, that he had no right to do so: there was not even the excuse he had had before, for he was following Valjean, and not Montparnasse. Perhaps they had been right; perhaps he was unsuitable for police work now – but even those thoughts were not enough to make him stop. He was not even certain what he was looking for. Perhaps Javert had become the thief now, skulking in shadows to wait and steal a smile that was not meant for him. But he had lived with Valjean for so long, had known his touch and his voice and the way he moved so carefully, that now it left him strangely unsettled to live without these things. 

Certainly it could not be so bad if he only stayed for a moment. Once he saw Valjean's happiness with his own eyes, he could leave, and perhaps that would be enough to end this sick fascination.

Valjean was not in the garden. Javert, his heart beating painfully fast in his chest, hid behind the hedge for a moment as he tried to think of how to continue. It was madness, all of it was madness. Any moment, a servant might come across him. Or worse, Valjean might see him and know himself followed once more. But perhaps, if he told Valjean that he had hunted a member of Patron-Minette, Valjean would not suspect the true reason he was here?

Javert wanted to shake his head. Here he stood, reasoning with himself, when not long ago, it had been he who had rounded up and arrested that infamous gang of murderers and thieves. 

No, he had every right to be here. Once more Javert thought of the strangely familiar man who had been with Montparnasse. Something was not right. What did it matter that his heart trembled at seeing Valjean and imagining the sound of his voice? The fact that his heart had become willful and wild in its age did not mean that he could not at the same time use his hands to catch a murderer. 

This was why he had come here, he told himself even as he crept along to the house and pressed himself against the wall. The windows showed him empty rooms: storage, the kitchen, a small room that might be the bedchamber of a servant. No, certainly Valjean would have a fine, large room. The girl loved him as a daughter should, and would have seen to it that he slept in a bedroom that looked out to the garden, where he was woken by birdsong in the morning.

He imagined Valjean standing at the window to watch the sun rise over apple trees in bloom, and a strange sadness gripped his heart. Valjean was loved. Valjean was cherished, and had at last reaped the rewards of a life devoted to doing good. It was Javert who had no right to intrude; to imagine himself stepping to Valjean's side as they looked out at trees, to imagine what it might feel like to cover that hand with his own–

No. He had no right to endanger Valjean's happiness with his pitiable yearnings. Javert took a deep breath. 

He had almost convinced himself that it was time to leave – he had not followed Montparnasse this time, after all; would he now lie to himself when deep in his heart, he knew that he had only come to catch a glimpse of the man who had both saved and ruined him? – when providence interfered once more. Some instinct made him kneel again to look through that small window into the cellar room where he had seen Valjean talk to his daughter before.

Once again, the room was not empty, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest before he realized that he was looking at a servant cleaning the room. As he watched, the man took hold of the chairs that had stood before the fireplace and carried them out of the chamber. Javert's lips twisted into a small smile. What a fool he was. What a great fool he was, to follow this man home, to hope to spy on him, to behave like a thief – he, Javert! What had he hoped to achieve? Had he thought to see Valjean at rest; had he perhaps intended to spy on the man washing, like a–

_Some spy you are_ , he chided himself. _Truly, Henry should get rid of you. Write of your obsessions in your next letter, and see where that will get you!_

All of a sudden, he felt as if his greatest failings had been revealed to him in excruciating detail. He _was_ the sort of man who would spy on another man washing, was he not? Yes. That was the sort of man he had become. Voicelessly he laughed and closed his eyes in torment, shaking his head at himself. Some favor Valjean had done himself to not shoot him like the old dog he was.

There was the dull sound of the cellar door closing, and when he opened his eyes again with sudden trepidation, he could see that Jean Valjean had entered the room, as though some devil had listened to his sinful fantasies and summoned the man who had haunted his every waking thought.


	6. Goodness Begets Goodness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murder is committed, and Javert is sent to an adress that is all too familiar.

A part of Javert had known that he should leave. It was all too obvious that he was not doing his work; the painful beating of his heart told him that it was this unhealthy infatuation that held him frozen in place, his face pressed to the small window, his eyes following that man who had in one form or another been a constant in his life for so many years now.

He could not remember Valjean in Toulon anymore. That was, perhaps, a relief. There was no need to think of Valjean amongst those rough, brutish men chained like the beasts they were... 

A shudder ran through him. No, Jean Valjean could very well have been one of those men he could not even remember. Was it only the clean clothes and the manner of a learned man that had made him come to cherish Valjean? If that convict were to step before him now, with his shaved head and his dull defiance and the chain that bound him – would Javert be so eager to embrace him? Would he dream of touching those lips with his fingers to learn the secret of the power held by their smile?

Or would he not flinch back in instinctive disgust, snarling with outrage that a convict dared to step before him?

This time, when he rubbed his face with his hands, the movement was nearly violent. He was cursed, he thought again. Cursed! How did one escape such doubt? 

There in the small room, the sound of voices now echoed. He shook his head and banished that frightening image of the convict to the back of his mind. He could berate himself later. Today, he had braved punishment for the chance of seeing for himself that by his leave-taking, Valjean had finally been freed from the torment of the past. Now, Javert would lay all of his regrets and yearnings to rest by seeing with his own eyes that Valjean was cherished and loved in a way he could never compare to. Having a family served Valjean better than having his bed taken up by an unhappy, ungrateful man who clutched his smiles to his heart like stolen treasure and yet had only ever given pain in return.

Javert strained to make out what they were talking about. He wondered again why they were meeting in the cellar. Maybe Cosette, like any young woman newly become mistress of her own household, had decided to have formerly unused rooms cleaned and refurnished, or had found an entirely new purpose for them. Javert knew little of these things, but he thought that it must make Valjean happy to share in her happiness. And Valjean had ever been the inventor, at his happiest when teaching men how to harvest a better crop or drive away unwanted vermin, or dazzling children when with his own hands he would create toys out of straw.

It was no use – he could hear the soft murmur of their voices, but he could not make out more than a word every now and then. He wanted to laugh at his own foolishness. This was what he risked his position for! A glimpse of Valjean, the sound of Valjean's voice – but would it not all be worth it, just to see him smile, even if that smile was not meant for him? Would that not be the proof his heart needed: that Valjean was happy and had no need of Javert's presence in his life?

But Valjean did not smile, and he did not embrace his daughter or leave with her. Instead, Javert watched in confusion as a few minutes later, Valjean left the room the way he had come, while the girl returned into the house by a different door, and the cellar room seemed as cold and deserted as the hollowness in Javert's chest.

#

After Valjean had left, Javert had followed him once more all the way back to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. Something within him had grasped at this puzzle as though it were a lifeline: here at last was another mystery for him to solve. And if it meant that in doing so, he could watch the man he had known for so long without ever truly _seeing_ him – well, then that was certainly but coincidence, or perhaps the working of providence after all.

Javert allowed himself to think of it for a moment: A case that forced him to enter Valjean's life once more – would it not be right to protect the man who had saved him from danger? Would that not, perhaps, be reason enough to meet him as an equal, free from shame, to humbly enter his apartment bearing that gift of some crime he, Javert, had prevented?

The thought was rejuvenating and kindled the old embers in his heart. His steps grew light and his eyes burned with that grim happiness that he had only ever known at the prospect of a hunt stretching out before him. Let them think him old and unfit for his office at the station-house. Let the Prefect shout at him and call him mad! Old dog that he was, his teeth were still sharp and his senses keen; sooner or later he would close his jaws around this mystery and not let go until he had torn the shroud that covered the goings-on here.

This new energy was enough to sustain him for several days. It was enough for them to take note of it at the station-house, and Henry – who admittedly tried his best not to let Javert feel the humiliation of having his former subordinate now anointed his superior – Henry took it to mean that Javert was making progress, although Javert had yet little to offer in the way of concrete information. In any case, it kept him safely ensconced in the Marais, where he had not seen anything of interest since that fateful day he ran into Montparnasse, and it gave him an excuse to shadow the walks of Jean Valjean, until it was Valjean's schedule that ruled Javert's day instead of Javert's work.

Javert supposed he should feel guilty. He, the agent of authority, irreproachable for so many long decades, was now shirking his duties to shadow the best man he had ever known. And yet, the experience he had acquired in the years of patrolling the city's streets told him that something was afoot. He could not quite say what it was, but something told him that if he just waited long enough, the mouse would come out of its hole, and then at last the hunt could begin in truth.

There were three days left until the night when Montparnasse had been summoned to the Rue du Babylone. Javert, who could not demand support from M. Gisquet or M. Chabouillet and who was still too proud to beg Henry after having been denied before, had decided that he would spend that night in wait. He had paid the street a visit once, but had found no sign of crime or mischief, and no sign of what might have led Cosette to that street several months ago. From what he knew of Valjean's habits, he supposed it was just as likely that it had merely been a family in need of charity, and that Montparnasse had been sent to the same street weeks later by coincidence.

And yet. 

Had not the time for coincidences passed long ago when Valjean had come to the barricade where Javert had been taken prisoner? Earlier still, perhaps. He had thought Valjean sly, like so many of the criminals he had encountered – but in truth, had not always providence seemed to lead Jean Valjean?

Javert could only follow, and silently pray that the same providence might let this life he had been granted prove of use to Jean Valjean.

#

It was not Henry but Martin who greeted him when he came into the station-house that morning. Henry was out at the market once more with two lieutenants, for during the night someone seemed to have set a stall on fire, which had taken down three further stalls before it had been extinguished.

Javert could not help the warmth that swelled his chest when Martin drew him into his office. He was useful after all, it seemed! And how sad that he, who had proudly declared that it suited him just right, that as a mere spy he would do little harm, now grasped at the first task of relevance with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a branch!

 _You have not changed at all,_ he told himself in disgust, even as he eyed the notes spread out on Martin's desk – once his own – with a hunger that both surprised and embarrassed him in its intensity.

And yet. He had been good at this once. What harm would it do to be allowed to use his talents once more? This seemed straightforward enough – murder, and no suspect. Certainly he could do little wrong in such a case. What moral repercussions were there to be feared from looking at the corpse and talking to whoever had known the victim?

He nearly smiled with the deep relief that filled him when Martin handed him the papers. Here at the desk that had once been his, surrounded by ledgers that had once held the cases he had handled, he was at last able to stand once more filled only by an awful, overwhelming happiness that his chain had been cut. At last he, who had declared to himself that he would do no more harm in the name of the prefecture, was sent out to hunt once more. Would he now so quickly lick the hand of his old master in gratitude?

It embarrassed him, and yet the pride that filled his chest was too seductive to resist after the many months of doubt gnawing at him – until his eyes at last came to rest on the address where the corpse had been found.

“You see why I thought of you immediately,” Martin said. He hesitated a moment. “Damn it, Javert, you have always done good work. And I have no other men around. Let the Prefect be my worry. You've watched those streets for weeks; I say you get your chance now.”

Then his face hardened, and when he sat down at the desk that had once been Javert's, Javert wondered whether he, too, felt embarrassed by his rise and Javert's fall.

“Don't disappoint me, Javert,” he said, as Javert would have once said to Henry. Javert would have laughed at the irony, but he was still staring at the address before him in shock, for the murder he was sent to investigate had taken place in the house of M. Gillenormand.

#

He told himself all the way to the house in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire that this had nothing to do with Valjean. He had not recognized the name on the note Martin had shown him, and Martin had not seemed to think that anything was amiss either, apart from the obvious, which was that a dead body had been found not too far from the house where Javert had watched Valjean enter for so many days now. The victim as well had been seen to emerge from that house not too long before the body had been found – but even so! A rich man and an infamous knifer like Montparnasse roaming the quarter: it all made sense, and there was no reason to think that this might involve Valjean – even less reason to divulge Valjean's name to Martin!

And yet, Javert's heart was beating with a strange, terse rhythm; when he entered through the carriage gate where he had stopped before, that night so many months ago, he finally realized that it was fear constricting his chest. Would he never be able to excise that man from his heart? He half feared that Valjean would be present, although it was early yet and Valjean would usually visit later in the day. What if Javert's reaction gave away that there was a great, deep secret between them that he had so carefully tried to bury? What if one of Martin's lieutenants took note, and they decided to dig deeper into the past of M. Fauchelevent at the precinct?

These gloomy thoughts weighed heavily on his mind as he followed Martin’s lieutenant into the house. On their way, the man had informed him of the situation: the young couple that lived here was gone for the day, and it had just been M. Gillenormand and his sister that had talked to the man whose body had been found not much later. 

The man grimaced. “I would be grateful if you would talk to him, Javert. Mademoiselle Gillenormand is very overwhelmed by all that has happened; I doubt we will hear anything of use from her, but I will talk to her again, if you don't mind.”

Javert nodded tersely. “And the body?”

“Still where it was found; we're waiting for a carriage.”

“I'll look at it once I have talked to this M. Gillenormand.”

Javert scowled as he thought of how hard it would be to pin the murder on Montparnasse without a witness. Still, he was one step closer now. He had his scent, and he was on the right track. Very soon, the moment would come when he would have him driven into a corner, when he could pin him with his claws and watch him writhe.

Javert allowed himself a humorless smile. Perhaps this would be the last crime he ever solved – but the pleasure he would derive from it would be something to look back on with satisfaction for years to come. Yes. The arrest of Montparnasse by his own hands would be worth it.

The discussion with M. Gillenormand did not yield much. He was a very peculiar man; even Javert, who by nature and habit was used to treating such men who owned property with the utmost respect, was taken aback to listen to him rant against certain political leanings which he blamed for the fact that murderers and cutthroats now prowled the gardens in the Marais, only to stop mid-sentence several times. His cheeks would bulge and his face redden, so that Javert almost feared the man was about to suffocate before at last his mouth would open and a bit-off curse would emerge, followed by further rantings against, or for, revolutionary thoughts that Javert was uncomfortable to have to witness, having not too long ago observed this man's grandson in the circle of his friends commit the crime of insurgency.

And yet, Javert told himself, the man was old and obviously harmless, and had almost lost his grandson. Javert had little interest in revisiting that time; and of course, any report he was to make about that man's grandson would once more pull attention to the events of the barricade, and so perhaps to a certain M. Fauchelevent. No, such a thing could not be. And had not M. Chabouillet told him to make certain to draw no attention towards himself? And had not also M. Gisquet's order caused so much outrage that he had suffered criticism from the king himself?

No, Javert's superiors would not appreciate it at all were he to come forward now with the name of a wounded insurgent half a year too late, when all had been forgotten. 

"Monsieur," he said humbly, once he had made certain that the man had very little to offer in the way of information, "you only spoke with him for a few minutes, and then he left straight away?"

"He came to see my grandson about a house – it belongs to his wife, you see, it is rented in her name. I do not know what he wanted. Why he did not write, I do not know! What a thing to bore a young couple with – and then, just today they went out to spend the day in the garden of that house! It is spring, you see, the time of love; he should take Cosette to her garden; he should build a grotto: a fountain, flowers, a little pavilion, that is all that is needed for young love to live on!"

Javert waited patiently. "And that man came to see them about that house? Was he the owner?" he asked when Gillenormand at last fell silent.

"No, no. He wanted to buy it, he said – or did he want to buy it back? Such nonsense, I did not listen; I have no time for such things, and in any case it does not belong to Madame la Baronne, so he must have been confused. It is rented, and there is a contract, and the rent has been paid in full for a year. Nonsense! To bore a young couple with such trifles! I sent him away."

"And he left straight-away? He left no letter for your grandson, monsieur?"

At Gillenormand's denial, Javert thought to himself that one of the servants might know more. Almost, he asked after Toussaint, but remembered at the last moment that he had no business to know of her.

Instead he went outside, crossing the garden in broad daylight and, for the first time, without fear of discovery. At last he had a right to walk the same paths Valjean did, and for a moment, his heart swelled with warmth.

The happiness vanished once he found the body. One of Martin's men was waiting next to it. It rested on a cart, and they had draped a cloth over it; blood had soaked through it in places.

Javert nodded in greeting. "A knife? Slit throat?" he asked, although the bloodstains did not fit, and the man shook his head as he drew the cloth away.

Javert sighed inwardly. Well, even a devil like Montparnasse could change his signature; perhaps the man had moved too quickly. There could have been any sort of reason; even a devil could slip.

Javert did not recognize the victim. He had half hoped that it might be the man he had encountered in the company of Montparnasse before, but that man, from what little he had seen, had been of medium height and stature. This man was short, but filled his velvet waistcoat almost too well. Javert assumed him to be fifty years of age; his hair had retreated at his temples, and what remained was cut short and clung in limp, white strands to his head.

Javert scowled, then reached down to search the man's pockets. He found a handkerchief and a watch, but no coin – and no letters. Certainly such a man would have brought papers with him if he had come to talk about the purchase of a house? No coin on him, but if this had been simple robbery, the watch would have been gone as well.

Javert turned it idly in his hands. No slit throat, no – but the death had been quick. There was bruising at the throat as well; Javert imagined that whoever had killed him had surprised the man from behind, quickly wrapping an arm around his throat and choking him so that he could not scream while the dagger slid into his heart.

“Where was he found?”

The man gestured towards a shady corner, where a narrow street ran alongside the wall that encircled the garden of the Gillenormand mansion. Javert found nothing but a few smears of already dried blood when he made his way there. This quiet street was called the Rue Neuve-de-Ménilmontant. It was surrounded by the high walls guarding the gardens of the bourgeois, and shadowed by trees that stretched over the walls. Around the corner ran the tree-lined Boulevard du Temple, and Javert could see there the occasional omnibus and fiacres pass, but there was no one about in this small street who might have observed the attack. He considered paying a visit to the Gillenormands' neighbors, but the walls kept the street invisible from the houses so that even a curious servant would not have been able to observe anything of note.

Javert shook his head as he returned to the house, disappointed. If he went to the commissaire with this – even if Henry as well believed his theories about a connection to Patron-Minette and told the commissaire himself – no, he did not think that this was enough to make the commissaire reconsider, not unless the man who had been killed had relatives that would push for results. And M. Chabouillet would be displeased in any case to see Javert's name come up in reports.

He went to interview the servants. There were three of them in the house; Basque, the valet, Javert recognized uneasily from that night nine months ago. But it had been dark then, and Javert had been a different man before his– 

He nearly choked on the word that sprung to mind. Accident, Valjean might have called it in his kindness. 

In any case, it did not matter. No one knew but Valjean. Javert had no one he needed to fear but Valjean, and Valjean he would not see again if he wanted to prove himself a good man.

Basque did not recognize him; that was well. But Basque also had little to say about the victim, and even less about his death. The man had come in a fiacre, alone; he had not talked to Basque, save to state that he had business with the daughter of M. Fauchelevent, who was now Madame la Baronne Pontmercy. What happened in the house, Basque could not say, but when the man left, he had looked disappointed, and had not talked, and had taken another fiacre that had driven around the corner and out of Basque’s sight.

"A fiacre!" Javert said, his interest roused at last, for how had the man come to lie dead on the ground in the street behind the house when earlier, he had left in a carriage?

He pondered it as he went to talk to the woman servant. If, he thought with rising excitement, if this had been planned, if someone had waited with a fiacre to drive this man to a quiet street behind the house to murder him there – well, then that was certainly no mere robbery? Then it was planned? Then, by all means and signs, this had the signature of Patron-Minette on it?

The joy on his face as he pondered that unexpected revelation at least succeeded in frightening the servant. He had found her quarreling with Toussaint, whom he still remembered well from his stay at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. After bidding her to wait outside, he talked to Nicolette first, who had a lot to say. Yet for all her words, nothing gave him any new ideas as to what that man's business could have been, besides what he had stated, or why Patron-Minette could be interested in such a thing. He asked whether she remembered the sight of a young dandy, perhaps in the company of another man, but all he received in answer was a haughty list of aristocrats that M. Gillenormand would entertain at his salons.

Javert could barely hide his growing frustration. There had to be a connection! Montparnasse, that devil, here in the courtyard of this house where Valjean's daughter lived! No, Javert refused to believe that it had been chance. Certainly God had led him to walk this path. And now that Javert had followed, perhaps he would be able to repay at least a small part of the debt he owed Valjean.

Talking to Toussaint was easier. The poor woman – hah! he thought to himself when he caught himself thinking such a thing: this was what Valjean's touch had wrought, a chest split open and a heart at last bereft of its armor – the poor woman was indignant, color high on her cheeks at the humiliation of Javert witnessing the way Nicolette had chided her. It took her a while to gather her thoughts, her hands trembling slightly as she sat down in an old chair to listen to Javert's questions.

"You left so suddenly, monsieur," she said at last and wiped her brow with a handkerchief, "you did, and M. Fauchelevent must have missed your company – is he telling you that he is busy? Are you visiting him now that the apartment is empty? And then it is spring, and you should let him show you the garden!"

"His daughter is not home today?" Javert began, eager to find a way to divert her questions, although his heart thudded guiltily in his chest as he thought of Valjean in that room, looking out of his window, remembering Javert. Would Valjean do such a thing? Would there be moments when Valjean looked at his desk, when he read a book, and remembered how for a time, Javert had sat there and had been a part of his life, eating, breathing, sleeping, as simple as that, as if he had belonged?

Would now Valjean once more wear that soft nightshirt he had clad Javert in and sleep in the bed where Javert had tossed and–

Javert paled and forcefully wrenched his thoughts away from that path. This was not a subject to contemplate, not when a man had been murdered nearby. If _this_ was the man Javert had become, perhaps it was indeed time to hand in his resignation and save his superiors the headache of his presence.

"He still is visiting his daughter, of course?" Javert was not quite certain how to proceed – had he ever been forced to hear the testimony of someone whom he had come to know? But then, outside of his work he did not make it a habit to speak to people, save for his landlady and laundress, neither of whom was likely to become embroiled in crime.

Toussaint wrung her hands and looked up at him, her stutter intensifying at her distress.

"He does not come to live with her! He makes her say "M. Jean," as though he were not her father, as though he has not raised and loved her! Oh, it is terrible, terrible, and she worries, I know she does. And now this! A murder! Thank God that they went out today to walk in the garden in the Rue Plumet.”

Toussaint shook her head, her eyes wide as her hand cramped around the handkerchief again. "Imagine if they had been at home! And what will M. Fauchelevent say?"

Javert swallowed as he imagined being forced to take Valjean's testimony. Good God, to sit the man down, to write down his name, to see him pale and fearful – and then to take that name back with him to the prefecture, where they might not know his secret, but where it would rest for the coming years, and with it that everlasting fear that someone would discover!

No. He could do no such thing. If it came to that, better to resign than to question Valjean and play the jailer once more. Javert might know little of goodness, but he knew that he could not bear for Valjean to ever look at him in fear again.

"Have you seen the man that came today?"

"The one that was murdered? No, monsieur! I was in madame's room – she loves her flowers, and it makes her happy to have vases full of them, and Nicolette just has no way with flowers, she–"

Toussaint cut herself off, and Javert, who remembered the earlier quarrel he had interrupted, nodded.

"Have you seen someone else, or something else, that seemed strange to you? Perhaps a young man with curly, dark hair, finely dressed – one of those dandies. Younger than M. Pontmercy?"

Toussaint slowly shook her head.

"He does not have many friends his age, I do not think. There is his cousin, M. Théodule, who is an officer of the Lancers, but he has not visited much. And then there is a lawyer who comes with his wife for dinner sometimes, but he is much older."

"I see. Another acquaintance perhaps that you might remember? Well dressed, medium height? He might have visited during the day once."

Toussaint began to shake her head, and Javert, casting around for that memory of the one time he had seen Montparnasse's accomplice, suddenly remembered the crates and his boots. "Well dressed, but dirty boots? Perhaps he brought crates, or inspected them, or–"

"Oh! M. de Thury? Yes, he is a friend of M. Gillenormand. A nephew of the vicomte de Thury, they say. Or perhaps a brother. Nicolette will know.”

Javert noted down the name as Toussaint continued. 

“Did the vicomte not go into the sewers himself? What a ghastly thing, imagine that for a moment! But you do not think that man murdered someone? A relative of a vicomte? No, monsieur, that seems wrong!”

"What did he want with the crates then?" Javert leaned forward, his eyes sharpening as he felt that much-missed joy rise within him once more. Here, at last, was the trail to unravel that mystery. Here was a footprint he could follow. 

Toussaint pressed the handkerchief to her brow again and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. "Oh, that was just the market! You cannot be thinking–? No, monsieur, he is a relative of the vicomte, and he is a botanist, and certainly a very famous man, if you would believe Nicolette!”

“If those crates are from the market, why would a botanist bring them?” Javert asked with great patience. Even if the woman was wrong – to look into a relative of the vicomte would be nearly impossible without the whole thing coming to the attention of M. Gisquet, and what would he do then?

Toussaint sat up straight and put down the handkerchief with great dignity. “Monsieur, I heard the cook talk about it. The crates of mushrooms were a gift, since he is a famous man who made many discoveries about their growth. She said those were true champignons de Paris. Oh, you should have tasted the soup she made of them! Yes, and I said to madame, why, these are just like the ones I brought from the market – you too will remember, monsieur, we made a tart, and M. Fauchelevent said you had eaten two pieces, so well did you like it!”

Javert floundered when his thoughts were thrust back into that situation once more. The softness of the nightshirt against his skin, Valjean's hesitant smile when Javert ate, the soft sound of his voice: all of that had become as much a part of that room to Javert as the sunlight and the distant sound of the street.

But now there was a murder to think about. _What am I doing_ , he asked himself again, despairing at this heart in his chest that could not let go of those memories, even though it hurt to remember.

“A gift,” he repeated, and made himself note it down to distract his mind from those treacherous reminiscences. “Crates of mushrooms from a well-known botanist. I see.”

Toussaint looked around, then leaned forward. “I think he wanted M. Pontmercy to invest into his industry. But M. Pontmercy is a sensible young man. Six hundred thousand francs, and he takes a fiacre! He does not buy the latest fashion, he is content to work a case every now and then, and walk with Cosette in the garden, and that is more than you can expect from many young men these days, although certainly a fine ball gown would not be amiss – but then I know little about these things, and Nicolette–” 

She bit off her words, and Javert stared at the notes he had made. Six hundred thousand francs. Yes. What a neat sum. How strange that he had never asked Valjean about it. And yet – was it not stranger that now, he felt no alarm, not even a twinge of that old, terrible delight of uncovering a ploy? For that was not money stolen, although the state would be glad to seize it. That was money Madeleine had earned by honest work. Should the work be no less honest because it had been done under a false name? Once he would have said that lie could only beget lie. Today he thought of that man and his name “Madeleine”, and what he saw was Valjean, kind and good, caring for an entire town the way he had cared for a sick and broken Javert in his bed. Goodness begot goodness. There had never been a lie in Madeleine's works.

“M. Pontmercy did not accept his offer then, I see,” he said, and now Toussaint rocked back.

“I do not know what they talked about – I'm not given to gossip, you must know that, monsieur – you can ask M. Fauchelevent! And I cannot say more; I know little about such things, but I know that is what that man offered M. Pontmercy, and I have never heard him or madame mention it after.”

Toussaint seemed deeply unsettled by the murder, which was to be expected. Certainly, when she had moved into the Gillenormands' house with Cosette, she must have expected safety, and an easier life than looking after an old man and his wounded, near-silent guest. And yet, Javert thought again, she fit in as little in this house as he fit in here. Would fit in here, if Valjean had come to live here as Javert had always supposed he would...

Javert flushed and averted his eyes as he realized that for one moment, he had once more imagined what it would be like to sit here on a chair by Valjean's side and listen to him quietly talk of what had been planted in the garden. Was he given to flights of fancy now? Would he rather delude himself with such twisted dreams than search for a murderer?

“Well, I should like to talk to her myself,” he murmured to himself, his eyes still on his notes. 

“But tell me – you are happy here? It is all well with you and Mme Pontmercy?”

Only after he had spoken the words did he realize that this was a strange new occurrence, and one he had not expected: when had he ever inquired about the well-being of a witness to a crime? He had scoffed at the fragments of politeness others might scatter; he, inspector of the police, had but one duty, and that duty was to make his arrest, not to coddle frightened women. 

And yet, these people were no strangers. He had lived among them – so perhaps it was to be expected. Perhaps that was all this was: not another sign of how his new, vulnerable heart was proving itself unfit for service to the police, but simply the behavior any man would exhibit who was faced with acquaintances in the course of an investigation? Perhaps he was not proving himself unsuitable, but simply facing the same difficulties any other man might? And if Henry or Martin could lack the focus and determination he had always prided himself on, but still do their work – perhaps so could he as well?

When he looked up, Toussaint had nervously squeezed her handkerchief into a ball between her hands. Her lips were pressed together, lined by shadowed, unhappy wrinkles, and again Javert remembered how he had rested in Valjean's bed, Valjean by his side with the Bible still open on his lap, and how the door would open and Toussaint would enter, carrying in soup and bread for him with the sunlight illuminating her face.

He had never known anyone in the employ of Jean Valjean to be unhappy, he thought with a new, sharp pang of pain in his chest. How much better a place this world would have been if he had never suspected the mayor, if Valjean had been allowed to keep doing good that had raised an entire town out of misery and ignorance. But how strange that Toussaint was unhappy now. How strange that Valjean, who visited every day, would not notice and help!

“Madame is very happy. I do not think it is possible to be more in love than she and M. Pontmercy are. You should see them in the garden, or hear her sing in the morning! Now if only M. Fauchelevent had come to live with her...”

She took a deep breath, then relaxed her hands and smoothed out the handkerchief once more. “But I am not suited to such a household; why, she is Madame la Baronne Pontmercy now, monsieur, and think of that, old Toussaint serving Madame la Baronne! No, it is as Nicolette says – that is, I am too old, and too clumsy, and I cannot speak the way someone should who serves a baroness. And now the murder! No, no, I am too old for such things; my heart will not bear it, that fear that any night, someone might slip into the house to finish what they started! I will leave by the end of the week, monsieur.”

“Ah,” Javert said, his head reeling at this sudden news.

“I have good work waiting; a neighbor in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé told me her daughter had found work with a farmer. Now I am too old to bend my back over rows of carrots and cabbages all day, but he needs a woman who will cook for all his workers, and that – that will suit someone like me better than serving a baroness.”

There was a hint of pride in her voice as she sat up and for the first time, looked him straight in the eye with satisfaction – much like the woman he had come to know during those weeks in Valjean's small apartment. How strange to look at her and remember all these things and feel unsettled. A wave of unease spread through his body, until he wanted to get up himself and demand answers from Cosette and Valjean as to what was going on.

But, he reminded himself painfully once more, he had no right to demand answers. He had never been more than a guest in their lives. What right had he to worry or to accuse? Toussaint had not settled into the new household; Toussaint would leave. Certainly such a thing had to happen a hundred times all across the country every day. If he wanted to repay his debt, he would solve this case and see the murderer behind bars and make certain that Valjean could live free of his shadow.

“Thank you,” he said, still reeling from the strange paths his thoughts now seemed inclined to take. He could only half avert his head in shame and mumble something noncommittal when Toussaint bade him make certain that old M. Fauchelevent would be well cared for once she was gone.

“He is a saint,” she said once more, her voice firm.

“Yes. He is a saint,” Javert found himself agreeing, and then flushed when he thought of the stained nightshirt once more.


	7. The Beast That Was His Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Javert trails Jean Valjean and finds a secret door and a secret grief.

Cosette's pale face relaxed with relief as soon as he entered the room, so that Javert nearly stopped dead in his tracks, unsettled by the novelty of this experience. Despite all the long years that he had served as inspector of the police, this was the first time his presence had been greeted with relief. And was that not strange? Before, he would have said that the law should be feared; those who had done no wrong had no reason to worry, after all.

And yet, now that Cosette quickly stood and hurried towards him, grasping his hands with both of hers, that open young face filled with both trepidation and that strange relief, he thought to himself that maybe, he had been wrong about that all along as well. Should not an agent of justice be greeted with relief at all times? Could it truly be that Cosette was the first person who, at seeing him enter a room, felt that her fears were in safe hands, and that he had come to help and see justice done?

Once he had believed that it painted a true picture of those lower classes of Paris, that the men and women glowering or trembling as he passed them in the streets must be concealing their own wrongs. In those days, he had walked the streets of Paris, and had thought himself a loyal dog walking amongst wolves. Everyone was a suspect. His duty had not been to help and to reassure, but to frighten and intimidate.

Not so with Cosette, who squeezed his hands and looked up at him and cried out, “Monsieur Javert! Oh, how good it is that it is you who have come! I was afraid when Nicolette told me that there had been a gruesome murder, but now I know it will be well! Did Monsieur Jean send you? But why did he not come himself?”

“Monsieur Jean?” Javert asked, stunned to hear such a thing from her lips. It was true, Toussaint had told him so, and yet...

What had come to pass here? He remembered them so well, those long, quiet days in Valjean's bed, the long hours ruminating on that tenderness and love that he now had the chance to observe. He had never known a man to love as profoundly as Valjean did. And had Valjean not risked his life to find the child, and then run and hidden from the world to keep her safe? How could it be that now, there seemed to have arisen some sort of strife between them? He could not make sense of it.

“Madame, please do not fear. I do not know what you were told, but there was nothing gruesome about it. You are safe; it was most probably a simple robbery, and bad luck that it happened so close to your garden. But I must ask – what did you know of this man? Did you see him before? M. Gillenormand told me he was interested in the house in the Rue Plumet.”

“Oh,” Cosette said, and let go of his hands at last to sit down, covering her mouth with her hand. “To think that that is where we went today! I still cannot believe such a thing happened! A man murdered! But no, monsieur, I did not talk to him.”

“Is there anything else unusual that you have observed lately? Anything about the house, when you went there today?”

Cosette shook her head. “Everything was as it should be – the garden is wild and green, and all the flowers... But no, monsieur. I saw nothing unusual. Although–”

“Yes? Even if you think it is not important, any detail might help,” Javert said, and watched as she worried a silken ribbon between her hands. 

“It is strange, but one of the friends of Marius' grandfather asked about the house. You see, M. Gillenormand will host a salon every now and then; he has so many old friends, and it is very good of him to try and entertain us.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Oh yes, monsieur! He is the son of the vicomte de Thury!” Cosette leaned forward a little. “An illegitimate son, but M. Gillenormand was very delighted to have him at his salon. And he seemed well-liked; I remember little of what was said, but he spoke of how he went to the École des Mines like his father.”

Javert noted down that new detail, although it seemed to him that his hopes had suddenly been dashed. To inquire about the son of a vicomte – he knew what M. Gisquet's answer would be. After Chabouillet had ordered him to draw no attention to himself, to do such a thing would certainly mean dismissal. And yet. Was it not too much of a coincidence that such a man would inquire about a small house with an overgrown garden? 

“Did he say why he was interested in it? Did he ask to buy it?”

“Oh, I do not remember!” Cosette sat back. “Perhaps we had been recounting how we met and fell in love? But he was not asking to buy it, I would remember that, monsieur, that would be strange indeed! Marius must have told him that it was rented in my name, and that we planned to return and see if the tulips had yet opened, and the honeysuckle. But he seemed more interested in, well–”

She suddenly fell silent and blushed. “Well, it makes no difference, monsieur, you know it already, and I can trust you. You are M. Jean's friend, after all. He was impressed that Marius had been at the barricade, and shocked that he had been wounded so grievously, only to be rescued and brought home!”

“Ah,” Javert said, made uncomfortable by his memories of that rescue and his own part in it – and what had nearly come to happen later that night. And to hear her call him Valjean's friend! No, such things could never be. He hastily made a few notes, only half-listening now; he knew all there was to know about the events of the barricade in any case, and he was more intrigued by this sudden interest in the house in the Rue Plumet. Perhaps, if he told Henry, there was a small chance he might be given a few men to come and search the garden...

#

He had not dared to ask Henry in the end. He told himself it was not a sign of cowardice, for he knew what the answer would have been either way. As soon as he brought up the name of the vicomte de Thury, Henry would have the good sense to realize that this was far above him, and would alert the commissaire, who would alert M. Gisquet, who would in turn most probably shout at M. Chabouillet, and have Javert dismissed before he could even try to disgrace the office of the Prefect with his presence once more.

Javert walked the streets of the Marais once more as he pondered this conundrum. He knew that something was afoot. He had seen Montparnasse. There seemed to be a strange interest in the house in the Rue Plumet – or perhaps that was a coincidence, and the true trouble rested elsewhere? What if his first fear had been correct, and it was blackmail? Jondrette had fled, Montparnasse moved freely through Paris, and if it was true that the man who had so barely escaped his eyes in the Gorbeau tenement had been Jean Valjean himself, then would he not be a prize Patron-Minette might seek to recapture, especially if by some misfortune they had heard of the girl's riches?

Javert held his hands clasped behind his back once more as he walked, pondering these questions he could not make sense of. Perhaps the easiest solution would be to visit Valjean and ask him if it had been he who had been bound when Javert had arrived to apprehend Patron-Minette. Perhaps Valjean would be relieved to see him, just as Cosette had been, and tell him of the attempted blackmail, and Javert would no longer have to feel the guilty pounding of his heart as he followed him through the streets of Paris like a starved dog without a master.

Javert imagined it for a moment: the smile that would light up Valjean's face, the way his eyes would rest on him with warmth and a pleased surprise that Javert had worked so restlessly in secret to ensure his well-being. A hand that would clasp his own – no, hands that would rest on his shoulders and pull him close, and–

He had to tear himself away from the thoughts, his cheeks flushing even as his heart clenched painfully. No. No, such things could not be. 

Would not Valjean regard him with fear again if Javert were to suddenly re-enter his life? He should go and ask him nevertheless, Javert knew, but the possibility that Valjean might look upon him as a stranger held him paralyzed. _Friend _, the girl had said, and what a sweet promise that was: the right to stand by his side, to clasp his hand, to see that smile and know that its warmth was meant only for him!__

__But he had been given such grace before, and his body had turned it to baseness. He could not think what he might do, should Valjean again offer friendship. To even dare to dream of such a thing was presumptuous._ _

__Better to know himself for what he was, and try to serve the way he should have served all those years ago: to do good as an instrument of the law for the first time in his life. If it should also be the last time, all the better. If he had learned one lesson, then it was that he was ill-suited to bear the cudgel._ _

__But then, perhaps, so was any man._ _

____

#

Javert knew it was a cowardly thing to shy away from demanding Henry's support – but it was proving more and more difficult with every new rejection to find the fortitude within him to step before a superior once more only to listen silently to words of reprimand. It was not that it was undeserved. Javert admitted to himself that he would have been far harsher to any inferior who showed such appalling lack of judgment. To think of Henry in the old days openly criticizing him, or demanding to be given men to follow some rumor that would displease the Prefect! No. Javert was well aware of what he would have done in such a situation.

And yet, if he could but find proof! Martin was not unreasonable. And Martin wanted the Gillenormand case solved, the first case of substance that had landed on his desk since that desk had ceased to be Javert's. If he could find proof enough to convince Martin that just this once, it would be worth it to go against the commissaire's wishes...

Javert's decision had been made. He needed proof, and there was only one place to find it: the Rue du Babylone. It meant that he would miss the chance to catch a glimpse of Valjean, if Valjean would return to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire as he did every day, but it could not be helped. And Valjean would not miss his presence, of course. Valjean did not even know how Javert had followed him, yearning for something that could never be. Valjean had his family. Javert wondered whether Cosette would tell him that Javert had come into the house, and that it was Javert who was investigating the murder. He flushed when he wondered helplessly whether Valjean, too, would be grateful that Javert did his best to keep him safe – or would not Valjean rather feel that instinctive fear as soon as Javert's name was mentioned?

Javert looked down into the roaring waters of the Seine as he hesitated for a moment at the Quai Pelletier. It was nearing noon, and the streets were busy; small carts travelled to the laundry boats at anchor upstream. Javert watched the sun gleam on the white-crested waves and thought of the darkness hidden beneath. How strange that day now seemed, and how long past. He could barely remember it – but he remembered Valjean's hand, and how it had closed around his wrist, and how Valjean had pleaded.

What a fool he had been then to throw that away. His heart ached again as he walked along the quay and then crossed the river. What he would not give now to have Valjean take his hand and speak to him.

"Fool," he said to himself, his lips twisting in dry satisfaction at the way the wind tore the word from him. The roar of the water was too loud for him to be overheard, but regardless he picked up his pace. He did not care whether they thought him mad, but it would be best not to gather any attention, if he wanted to quietly observe the goings-on in the Rue du Babylone for the day.

In the distance, he could hear the tolling of the bells of Saint-Sulpice, a moment later, Notre-Dame across the river joined in, and at that exact moment, something touched his heart until it, too, resounded like a great bell of bronze, and he saw a man clad in simple workman's clothes, but with unmistakably broad, strong shoulders, walk along the Quai de Montebello before him.

That man was Jean Valjean.

Heat rushed to Javert's face, and he nearly stumbled, so surprised was he by this sudden appearance of the man who had never left his thoughts during all the months since those strong arms had pulled him out of the river. And yet, for all that Javert yearned for these rare glimpses of him with a wild, desperate ache he still did not quite understand, to have the man suddenly appear before him was bewildering. Javert had already resigned himself to not encountering Valjean on his walks today, for he knew his schedule well. 

Had Javert not haunted the streets of the Marais like a ghost himself, nominally on the lookout for Patron-Minette while in truth, his heart had lived for that one time of the day when Jean Valjean would leave the apartment in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé and walk past the Blancs-Manteaux and the barracks along the Rue des Bourgeois until he came to the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine? Like a bird following the call of the sun, he would turn left to follow the Rue Saint-Louis north every day at the same time, while Javert would keep to the shadows and follow. For the first time of his life, Javert had found himself unable to resist temptation, abandoning his post for that sweet torment of beholding Valjean's broad shoulders and strong arms and remembering the scent of his hair as he had bent over Javert.

No, Javert knew the paths he took well. Valjean had no reason to be here, on this side of the river.

With a frown, Javert watched from another shady doorway as Valjean moved slowly, shoulders bent, following the Rue Saint André towards where the bells of Saint-Sulpice were still calling to them.

Perhaps he was going to give alms, Javert told himself. Perhaps a poor family was in need of help. It could be anything. A starving child. A dying woman. The burial of a friendless man.

Or a trap, Javert's heart supplied, beating fearfully against his ribs. _Remember that man Jondrette and the Gorbeau tenement. Remember your first thought when you saw Montparnasse in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire._ It could be blackmail.

Javert had no choice but to follow. Even had he not feared for Valjean, he would not have been able to turn away. He could not touch. He could not talk. But like a poor child that presses its face against a window at Christmas to look at a display of dolls, he could not help but watch and think with helpless pain of what could not be.

At the Place St. Marguerite, Valjean turned away from the small street that led towards the towers of Saint-Sulpice, whose bells had finally fallen quiet. Valjean did not seem to feel their silence, for he continued slowly, his head bent, as though he were carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders. Javert followed him along the Rue du Four, a strange restlessness growing within him, and as they passed the Hospice des Ménages, he finally realized whence this sudden fear had come.

This was a road he had taken before – the day he had first investigated the Rue du Babylon. Could it be possible that Valjean as well was headed where duty had called Javert? But no, Valjean must be visiting the Rue Plumet instead. They had lived there before; he might return to spend spring and summer there, now that Cosette was wed, or there might be other business for him in the house–

Javert's worries turned into sharp dread when Valjean turned into the Rue du Bac. 

This was not the way to the Rue Plumet. This was to the way to the Rue du Babylone, and with every step Javert took, his heart beat in fear against his ribs, and he offered a silent prayer to God, beseeching him to let Valjean walk on.

When they reached the corner, Valjean did not even hesitate or turn to look around him. He walked straight into the Rue du Babylone, and Javert saw all his worst fears suddenly coming true. It had to be blackmail. A man had been murdered; now Patron-Minette had summoned Valjean to their hide-out under some pretext – and he, Javert, was all alone! There was no policeman in sight, no gamin to send with a letter! No time even to raise an alarm at the barracks, past the gates of which Valjean was walking now with that same dejected bearing of a man who had already accepted that he had lost it all.

His heart still thudding traitorously loud in his chest, Javert followed Valjean along the Rue du Babylone. It was aquiet, unassuming street, and though there was a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and a cart rolling towards the boulevard, there was no trace of anything that would rouse suspicion.

Perhaps Valjean too was early, Javert thought, taking care to remain well-hidden behind walls or trees, although Valjean seemed utterly lost in thought. Then Javert realized that he had not seen him turn even once, ever since he had first laid eyes on him crossing the Pont Notre-Dame. No, that was not the behavior of a man blackmailed – at least not of a man come early to spy on the criminals, or to thwart their plans otherwise.

Javert's heart clenched painfully. Did he not know this man better than any other? Had not this man traveled to Arras through the night to give up his freedom to save a stranger, some poor wretch who had done nothing to earn this man's benevolence? Would not Jean Valjean martyr himself without hesitation when by doing so he could save another?

Javert still did not fully understand what was going on, or what exactly it was that Montparnasse and his band of ruffians thought to gain, but the murder and the strange inquiries into the house at the Rue Plumet seemed sign enough. And of course, Cosette must have told him. Would she not have sent a message to Valjean immediately to inform him that a man had been found dead behind her garden? Valjean would come to the same conclusion as Javert had. And then, because he was Jean Valjean, and a better and at the same time more frustrating man than any other man Javert had ever known, Valjean would willingly walk into a trap and seek to give those villains what they wanted, if that would save his daughter.

All of a sudden, Javert felt anger bubble up inside him. To think that Valjean had not come to him with such a thing! To think that Valjean did not know how highly Javert regarded him – could Valjean truly endanger his own life to drag him from the river and nurse him back to health with his own hands, and yet still think him too terrible and frightful to ask for help with such a problem? As if Javert were physically capable of returning Valjean's trust with betrayal! Rather he would cut off his own hand than use it to sign an arrest warrant for Valjean!

Heat had risen to Javert's face, and before he knew it he had gained on Valjean, his anger taking precedence over his caution for once. Just in time, he saw that Valjean had stopped before a wall. Javert managed to lunge behind a small wooden gate before Valjean at last looked around, and then reached into his pocket.

He produced a key, and while Javert watched through a gap in the wood, seemed to use it to open a small door in the wall.

Javert frowned, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had arrived at this new puzzle. Certainly these were not the actions of a man coming to meet his blackmailers? Would they have sent him a key?

Javert watched, arguing with himself whether he should come forth and demand to know what the devil Valjean was doing – and then he thought again of that moment when Valjean would turn and see him, and how that first emotion on his face at the sight would be fear.

Dread curled in Javert's stomach. He could not make himself move as he watched Valjean open the door in the wall and step through.

His fingers trembled as he buried his face in his hands, allowing himself one moment of weakness. It would be best to end it very soon. Like an old animal he had become useless for his work. He was a disgrace. He should never have returned to the station-house. At least they would still have remembered him for the man he had been: the man who had been terrible, but also useful, who had excelled at what he had done. He should have sent in his resignation and returned to his chamber, to suffer there in peace, alone with tormenting visions of Valjean's kind hands while at the station-house his name would be still be spoken with a hint of awe: Javert, who had once revealed the truth about the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Javert, who had held all of Patron-Minette in his grasp.

Now they spoke his name with pity and stopped talking when he entered a room, his desk no longer his own; now M. Gisquet shouted his name in rage, and, if he knew the truth, would probably curse God for allowing Jean Valjean to pull Javert from the river.

"But there, what use is this? Here you sit and talk to yourself like an old woman at the market, and all the while he walks alone, unobserved, perhaps right into a trap! What the devil is wrong with you, Javert!" He bared his teeth in frustration at this conscience that had taken root within him, assailing him now with such useless deliberations when danger was waiting for Valjean!

The street was still quiet. A fiacre had passed, and two empty carts that made their way to the nearby Marché Saint Germain, but it was yet too early for further traffic towards the barracks at the end of the street. Determined, Javert got up, and then strode towards the wall where he had seen Valjean vanish. If someone should spy him, well. He did not think he would be doing his work for much longer now. What difference would it make whether Gisquet had him thrown out for breaking into a stranger's garden?

The door was small, and Javert looked at it in puzzlement. The wall was too high to see the house this belonged to. It did not seem to him at all the place where a gang such as Patron-Minette would scurry to hide from the eyes of the law – like rats, criminals like that preferred holes closer to where the rich dropped the crumbs from their tables. 

Javert pressed the handle, but the door was locked. He gnashed his teeth in frustration, and then tried again, carefully jiggling, remembering how easy it had been to trick the door into the Gillenormands' garden. But this was a different door – a concealed door set into a wall, hiding better secrets than a garden, he supposed, and so it was only to be expected that this door would be better suited to guarding secrets.

Javert reached into his pockets, and with great satisfaction pulled out the tools that could be found in the pockets of any thief. Javert had come prepared. A lifetime of observing crime had left him with a vast amount of knowledge as to how those criminals he pursued plied their trade, and as his intention had been to locate and observe the secret hide-out of Patron-Minette, he had brought the instruments that were so indispensable to any robbery: a knife, a small gun, and an iron ring that held an array of picklocks, of which he now tried one after the other until at last, he found a combination that coaxed the small door to open.

Quickly, he slipped through and shut it behind himself – but what stretched out before him was not the garden he had expected. The door had hidden a narrow little path, framed on both sides by walls so high that he could not look over them. Once more his heart thudded in his chest, both with rising excitement and fear, for there was no space for a man to hide in this small corridor. But luck was still on his side: the path soon turned a corner, and Valjean must already have walked past it, for now it seemed that Javert was all alone in this strange, secret passageway. The stone walls that rose high around him kept out the sounds of the street. There was the soft call of a bird somewhere in the distance. As he watched and waited, there came a rustling sound; then a mouse ran across the path a few steps before him. Javert exhaled deeply. 

Somewhere within his chest, the old dog had been roused. Now its nose pointed forward as it scented the air, and Javert, who before had felt guilt at the thought of hunting Valjean, instead felt that he was pursuing a mystery. Certainly there could be no harm in allowing the old beast within him off the leash to trail a secret?

Valjean had to be somewhere in front of him, for the path led straight ahead, and there were no doors or gates Javert could see. Still, there was no sound of steps. Javert hesitated – but then he made his decision. His instincts had led him here, after all, and there was the matter of the murder. Whatever he would find he would keep secret if it would harm Valjean, and he would act only if Valjean were in danger, no matter what that might mean for his own position with the police.

Something very close to joy filled him as he began to slowly follow the path, exploring with wonder this strange corridor out of a fairy tale, for it continued after the corner, and kept bending and twisting for no discernible reason, save that behind the corners, there might be gardens or houses or fields. 

How strange a secret this was. Had Valjean always known that such a secret path existed? With wonder, Javert thought of the night when he had followed him from the Gorbeau tenement. Had it not seemed to him that Valjean had a supernatural knowledge of the city, that some devil must have raised him and lifted him over walls that no ordinary human could have scaled? Was it possible that in that quarter as well, there had been secret ways known only to Jean Valjean, whereas he, Javert, who had thought himself guard and defender of those very streets, knew but half of the passages and pathways that ran between walls and gardens?

And then, had Jean Valjean not always walked the path of goodness; and was it not also true that Javert had been lost, and had not known where to go, afloat at sea like a ship whose mast had been broken? Again he felt breathless as he continued to follow after this man he could no longer see, led by the ache in his chest that could only be soothed by one more sight of he who had saved him, and who had saved so many others, and who had raised Javert with gentle hands when Javert had not deserved such a thing.

It was very quiet here in the small passage between the walls, but the sun was shining, and somewhere in the distance he could still hear a bird. The air was fragrant with the scent of soil and grass and flowers. Suddenly, his soul felt unbearably light, as though a weight had fallen off: gone were the gloomy months during which he had known little but doubt and the eternal struggle that came from seeing what was right, and what was wrong, but no longer being able to trust either, nor his capability of doing what was right. Now, it almost seemed to him that by treading in the footsteps of Jean Valjean, he must be following him to Paradise.

Then Javert turned another corner and was faced with a sight that pulled his soul back from its flight. There, opening before him on the side of the wall, had appeared a small grotto, which once might have been Paradise indeed for two souls joined by love, but which now had been turned towards a more mundane task and was filled by wood and crates.

The corners of Javert's mouth slowly turned up as he beheld it. This did not seem to him to be the abode of a band of thieves and murderers either – he had seen the lodgings of Patron-Minette, and that small garret of the man Jondrette. No; such men left their stain upon their surroundings, and he doubted that the crate of unopened wine bottles would have been left unattended even for an hour with Jondrette around.

And so, Jean Valjean had not been pulled into the trap of Patron-Minette. That was good; that was very good, he told himself, although the unease within him was not laid to rest.

What _was_ Valjean doing, in that case? How very strange this man was! Javert, who had known him since Toulon, for more than half the years of his life; who knew more of this man's history than perhaps any man still alive; who had held in his own hands the note that announced his death – Javert realized with deepening bewilderment that indeed he knew nothing at all about this man in whose bed he had slept.

Valjean was not a criminal, no. Valjean was a good man. Valjean was his savior. But Valjean was also father to a daughter, and, Javert had been certain of it, recipient of all the love a man so good and selfless surely deserved. And yet this man did not live with his daughter and was no longer called father by her, and met her in a dark room in a cellar. Valjean was a saint, Javert had thought, who saved more men than the priest of the parish, and fed more children too – and yet Valjean's feet did not lead him to Paradise or to give alms, but to a secret door in a wall, and to a secret passageway.

“Who are you, Jean Valjean?” Javert muttered to himself as he followed the path again, leaving the small grotto behind. This puzzle filled his whole being, bedazzled him with its mystery, and where before, Javert had used to tell himself that he would catch Montparnasse and see that devilish youth behind bars where he belonged, and then resign from a position which he felt he was no longer suited to, now he could only think of Jean Valjean. It was impossible to escape the memories of that kind, lined face, the worn, gentle hands, the eyes that had smiled at him and saved him – but those eyes had always kept their secrets, and now the Valjean Javert had thought he had known vanished like a cloud dispersed by a sudden gust of wind.

At last, the path came to its end. There was another small door in a wall – but this time, the door had been left unlocked and ajar, and with trepidation Javert moved closer. What would he say to Valjean, if Valjean were to find him? To follow him through the streets was one thing. But to unlock secret doors and follow him through secret passages – would not Valjean think that Javert was following him the way one follows a criminal? 

Javert frowned when he realized that he had in fact shadowed Valjean just as he had shadowed Montparnasse until he lost him.

And yet, he had done so for a different reason: not to do harm – never to do harm to this man to whom he owed his life! Still, as much as he tried to tell himself that his reasons for following Valjean were pure, that it was simple worry, the instinctive need to protect, that had taken root in his heart, deep within he knew that this was not all. That breathlessness at the mere thought of being face to face with Valjean, of Valjean looking into his eyes, close enough to touch – that was quite a different thing, and perhaps something he should feel ashamed for. 

It would not be so bad to obsess in such a way, Javert told himself in despair even as he carefully opened the small door and stepped through. There was friendship and love, and that was pure. Even Javert, who had never known such a thing, thought that maybe Valjean, who was a very good man, could allow himself to be loved as a friend – as a brother – by Javert.

But that was not all, and Javert, who had spent many nights awake, shivering in his bed as he tried not to dream of what it might be like to press his lips to Valjean's mouth, had often found himself with his hand between his legs, working for a quick, hot rush of relief that left him feeling empty and soiled, as though all love had been driven out of him by lust, leaving him only with his shame to fill the emptiness instead.

That memory alone was almost enough to make Javert turn and slink away, like a dog who had been kicked once too often to trust a different, kindly hand stretched out towards it. But there was still that sense of the hunter within him, and though his muzzle was gray, he reminded himself sharply that he was not useless yet, that he might be following dreams and idle fancies, but that there had been a murder, and that knowing that Valjean was safe and not threatened by Patron-Minette would be a good thing.

His brow creased as he slowly made his way forward through the grounds. It was an overgrown patch of land, a wild garden of Eden where spring had called forth multitudes of flowers and blossoms, and birds singing in the trees.

He could not see Valjean – but when he made his way past the flowering hawthorn, he saw before him the house that stood in this untended garden. At the sight of the pavilion, he realized at last with wonder that he was standing in the garden of the house at the Rue Plumet. 

How had they come to be here? What mystery was this? He turned, but there was no answer awaiting him, only the creaking of branches and birdsong. Off to one corner of the garden, near the wall, he could see a small hut. Before him, something gleamed white through the foliage of the bushes, and when he curiously stepped closer, he finally saw Valjean, whom he had followed for so long.

The sight was familiar: Javert had come to know him so well that he thought he would recognize him anywhere. Soft white hair rested in gentle curves against Valjean's head, and even though his shoulders were bowed, they stretched broad and strong beneath the fabric of Valjean's coat. How close he was now, Javert thought, his breath catching in his throat as Valjean turned. He was so close that Javert could see the lines on his face, the way they deepened around his mouth, and feel his chest ache anew at the way unhappiness marred a face that had seemed to him more divine than that of an angel when Valjean had smiled at him and touched his brow.

He had not been so close to Valjean since he had stolen out of the small apartment at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. Now his soul took flight, and he remained hidden behind the trunk of a tree, his eyes wide, his heart full, as he watched Valjean slowly turn to eye every bush, every flower, the small hut as well as the pavilion, even the overgrown walls that encircled the garden, with a slow smile of heartbreaking love. 

Then Valjean stepped forward, towards where a withered statue rose white out of the verdant grass that had grown high here, and he fell to his knees in a carpet of quivering gillyflowers. A cloud of white butterflies arose at the sudden motion. Instead of dispersing in fright, they fluttered around him while at that moment, a cloud moved past the sun, and the warm light of spring shone down upon the secret garden and illuminated Valjean. Javert could not imagine a sweeter sight and watched with rapture as one of the pale butterflies alighted on a lock of white hair for a moment, spreading its wings once, twice, before it took flight as well to move on towards the flowering honeysuckle.

For one glorious moment he allowed himself to dream of the impossible: to step out from his hiding place and kneel down beside Valjean, to place his hand in his, and to ask for nothing but the grace of his company in this garden.

Then he became aware of the fact that Valjean was weeping. Valjean's shoulders shook, and when he raised his eyes to look at the statue that stood facing out at the garden, unmoved by his plight, Javert felt his heart constrict when he watched the tears continue to run down that face that had only ever looked at him with kindness.

What was this great sadness that had taken Valjean? What might have happened to cause such great grief? His first thought was Cosette, but would Valjean not have hastened to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire in that case instead of coming to this empty house and going through a secret passage?

Once more, Valjean kept his mysteries, and Javert, frozen by indecision behind his tree, now for the first time felt the weight of what he had done. For how long had he followed this man? How long had he spied on him through a window, watched him talk to his daughter in a dark cellar and then leave the house that was her home and which by all rights should be his as well? Again Javert felt as though there was an abyss looming where before, he had seen Jean Valjean stand, the saint who had saved him and whom he had saved in return by leaving his home.

But the man who had smiled and led a life of such quiet, domestic bliss with his daughter did not exist. Or at least, the happiness Javert had seen in that small apartment was gone, and he wondered now if it had ever existed, remembering too late how sometimes, Valjean would turn silent and avert his eyes, so that it felt like a shadow had fallen upon the room.

Quiet and disturbed by what he was witnessing, Javert watched as Valjean rose at last. Again Valjean looked around himself, lingering on where the butterflies now fluttered like a cloud of white over the golden honeysuckle. He was still weeping with a silent grief although his eyes were strangely distant, so that almost it seemed to Javert that Valjean was watching a ghost play.

Then a shudder ran through Valjean, and he turned away from the flowers and the butterflies and the garden with what seemed like great effort. Very slowly, he walked past where Javert was hiding. Tears were still running down his face, and Javert felt as though he had just watched a man say goodbye to happiness, the way another might say goodbye to a friend before going on a journey.

Quietly, ashamed all of a sudden to have witnessed this private grief, he now watched Valjean slip through the secret door in the wall again and pull it close behind himself, so that it seemed as if it had never existed. When minutes later, still quiet and deeply disturbed, Javert sought to follow him, he could not find whatever secret mechanism was needed to make it open. There was no keyhole, and in fact the door was so well hidden that it was only betrayed by the flattened grass in front of it.

Javert returned to his chambers through the Rue Plumet, scaling the gate like a burglar, his face flushed with embarrassment although the street was very quiet and there were no neighbors that could see him. He walked down the Rue Rousselet, and when he reached the corner of the Rue de Sêvres, he deliberately turned his back to it. Whether Valjean, who would reach that road from the Rue du Babylone, was walking back to his own apartment now should not concern him, he told himself, still filled by a strange guilt that came not from having observed his grief, but from having watched this man with adoration for so long without once sensing that something pained him.

Javert took the Rue de Vaugirard that led him past the Luxembourg, the towers of Saint-Sulpice calling again in the distance. He was glad to know himself south of the bells' call now, trusting that Valjean would instead return by the path he had taken before. To make certain that he would not run into him, Javert lingered in the Luxembourg gardens, although the flowers that bloomed here seemed to have lost all beauty when he compared them to the gillyflowers and the honeysuckle that grew wild in Valjean's garden, and to the smile of the man who had secretly wept there on his knees.

#

Javert remained deeply unsettled by what he had witnessed when he rose again early the next morning. There had been something so private and immense about that grief he had observed that a strange shyness had betaken him, and he, who had always gone straight for the heart of every matter with the blind determination of the hound, was floundering once more.

He had no right to witness something so private and painful, and it had at last revealed to him the full thoughtlessness of his actions. To speak to Valjean now would not only mean to claim the familiarity of a friend, a position that had never been his, but also to admit how he had trailed Valjean with the same obsession with which he had trailed criminals. There was no explanation he could give, after all: no reason for him to have followed Valjean's lonely walks to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire – even less reason to have spied there on him through a window, and then follow him through that secret corridor, as if he was hunting down a knifer to his lair in an empty hovel.

There was only one reason he could give, which would be to admit his shame. Would Valjean even believe it was possible, that Javert, who had sought to return him to prison for so long, had become enamored with–

Javert's thoughts broke off. It sounded hollow even in his own mind. How could he stand before Jean Valjean and tell him that he remembered still that one touch of his hair against his lips, the coolness of his fingers against his brow, that rare smile that had filled Javert's pitiful soul with warmth for the first time in his life?

Such images followed Javert all the way to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. 

No, he thought as he stood outside and looked up at the windows. No, it was impossible. Valjean would laugh, or worse, look at him with pity for his affliction. How would he bear it to see the light go out of Valjean's eyes when he looked at him, and to know that never again would Valjean smile at him with such sweet calmness, as if there could be peace in any room that held the two of them, as though there was the hope that one day, Valjean might take his hand and call him friend?

Javert scowled, but then made himself enter the building. It did not matter. Valjean could not be his friend. But even worse: Valjean had no other friend, and so duty bade Javert go and speak to him. That was the solution he had come to during the night: he owed Valjean a debt. Valjean owned his life. He could not let his own cowardice keep him away. Something had made Valjean weep and hide in dark cellar rooms, and perhaps in this, Javert could be of help, even though he himself could not say how such a thing might be possible. But this beast of sharp fangs that was his conscience had his throat between its jaws, and Javert had felt the threat of its bite all night. He knew now that he had no other choice than to face both Valjean and what he had observed.

His footsteps echoed ominously as he made his way up the stairs. He imagined Valjean hearing them and turning pale with worry, and his heart clenched again at the thought that Valjean might see his face and feel fear.

Instead, it was Javert whose breath froze in his throat as terror overwhelmed him. For a moment, he could not move as he turned the corner and found himself facing the door that led to M. Fauchelevent's apartment. It stood wide open. 

There on the floor lay the pieces of a smashed bowl, and a sheet of paper stained with water. The lock of the door had been broken.

His throat was dry. His chest ached fiercely, the way it had when Valjean had pulled him out of the water, as if once more there was something too great and terrible for his weakened ribs to contain.

Someone had been inside Valjean's apartment. 

Javert's mind, which had spent long years visiting such places and memorizing every detail, took note of the opened drawers, the books scattered over the floor, the cushions pulled from the sofa, even as he stepped into the room with fear clawing at his insides. He could not breathe, could only look around at the carnage that surrounded him while his heart shuddered in his chest as if it would burst.

Was there blood, he thought nonsensically, no, why was there no blood; if they had attacked Valjean he would have defended himself...

A sudden gust of wind made the curtains blow into the room. The windows were open. Someone had torn all the letters and papers from the desk in the corner, and now the wind sent them scattering around Javert's legs like mice fleeing from a cat. Was that blood smeared across an envelope?

Javert never heard a sound. When he saw the shadow move across the floor before him, it was already too late. His last thought before the blow was of Valjean.


	8. Into the Empire of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Javert makes observations about subterranian farming, speaks to a man in a mask, and finds Valjean in chains.

The pounding agony behind his eyes was the first thing he became aware of, pulsating in the darkness that surrounded him. He groaned. 

It hurt to open his eyes, as though they had been glued together. The sensation was strangely familiar: this was how he had often woken from slumber those first few days after Valjean had dragged him from the river — only then it had been his chest that had ached with every breath he took. Now, instead, it felt as though hot bands of iron were tightening around his head, and when at last he managed to open his eyes, they instantly filled with burning tears.

He did not know where he was. That was the next thing he realized. He was lying on the ground, staring at a wall of dark, roughly-hewn stone. There was no sunlight, although somewhere a flickering lamp gave off enough light that slowly, his eyes could make out forms and shadows, and he saw that he was in some sort of cave.

He sat up with a groan. When he touched his head with careful fingers, he encountered the brittle remains of dried blood in his hair, as well as a sizable lump.

His breath escaped him in a hiss. He remembered the shadow coming towards him.

“Foolish, foolish, _foolish_ ,” he said to himself and bared his teeth in a quiet laugh of despair. Oh, how right they had been. He was unfit for his job. Something had happened to Valjean, and instead of saving him, Javert had walked right into the trap as well. Now who would bring help? Henry? 

Javert laughed again, then had to bury his face in his hands at the agony that pulsated in his skull. No, not Henry. Not Martin either. He had been so careful to keep Valjean's name out of his notes and reports to keep him safe. Now no one would know that he was in danger.

“You fool, Javert. You great fool.”

He sat quiet for a long time. After a while, the silence and the darkness soothed the pain that seemed to split his skull, and he managed to move enough to explore the small cave he was in. It was, in fact, a cell. Iron bars and a locked door barred the way, but in the gloomy light, he could make out a tunnel of the same hewn stone beyond.

Where had fate brought him? What was this mystery Valjean had become embroiled in?

Pain sliced through him like the stab of a knife as he thought of the abandoned apartment again. He did not even know whether Valjean was still alive!

“Oh God,” he said out loud, horrified and overcome by anguish. He wanted to pray, for the first time in his life, to offer up supplication on his knees, to pledge his soul, this useless thing that Valjean nevertheless had found worthy of rescuing from the raging waters, as sacrifice — if only some gentle voice would speak to him and swear to him that Valjean was well. But the horror was so great that he could not speak, could not even clasp his hands as he trembled at the thought that Valjean could be dead.

It could not be, he told himself, cold sweat beading at his brow as he slowly made himself get up. The iron bars swayed before him, and he had to grasp them, leaning against them to let the dizziness pass. They were cool against his clammy skin. The air was dry, but smelled slightly damp. He took a deep breath, then another. His ears could not pick up any sound. 

Think, Javert, he told himself, grimacing again as he thrust his hands into his hair. It was unbound — the ribbon that had held it back in an orderly queue must have been lost on the way here, and now it hung in gray tangles around his face, the strands caked together by dried blood. Again he bared his teeth in distaste at the state he was in.

Valjean was not dead. He had to believe that. “Valjean is not dead,” he said aloud, and it echoed ominously in the cave so that he shuddered instinctively — but still, the sound of his own voice was reassuring, and made it easier to believe in the truth of those words.

He could not despair. Now, more than ever, it was the old watchdog that was needed. No — Valjean could not be dead. This was too elaborate. He could not make sense of it yet, but had not all of the recent happenings been strangely centered around Valjean and that small house in the Rue Plumet? Had they merely wanted the death of Jean Valjean, they would have arranged that at an earlier time. 

What was it they wanted? What had he disrupted? Why had they dragged him into a cave instead of leaving him in Valjean's apartment with his throat slit? 

Javert began to pace, pulling at his whiskers in frustration. Every now and then he stopped to examine the walls of his cell and the iron bars that stood in his way. They were sturdy, and though the iron was rusty, mere strength would not break them.

Javert thought of Valjean, who had once lifted a cart, and trembled. But what good would that strength be to him when he did not even know whether Valjean was unhurt — or whether Valjean was even held prisoner here as well?

Maybe they had dragged Javert away to some forgotten hole to imprison him here and leave him to his death, while Valjean was being held in some other place. Maybe Patron-Minette had returned to that accursed Gorbeau hovel. Maybe they were hiding like rats in the sewers. Maybe even now, Valjean was in pain, Valjean was bleeding, Valjean was dying...

He cast himself at the bars in anguish, grinding his teeth as he yanked at them and found that they would not give even the smallest amount.

“What a damned fool I am!” he said and would have wept, remembering how Valjean had knelt in the garden, how low that venerable head had bent, how tears had made his shoulders shake.

And had he, Javert, not hid close enough to reach out to touch? What devil had told him to hide in the face of such sadness? Would they both have been in this predicament if he had been brave enough to face this man's sadness and offer—

Javert ground his teeth again. He knew what had made him stay his hand. But was that not true cowardice? Whatever baseness had made him soil Valjean's sheets with his lust, certainly he would have been able to overcome it, if only for Valjean's sake, and offer support instead of the taint of his sin.

He sank to his knees again. For a long time, he remained motionless, thinking again of who might be able to look into what had happened in Valjean's apartment. The portress would certainly have realized already that something was amiss. She would know, too, that M. Fauchelevent's daughter had married M. Pontmercy. That name should be enough to alert Martin — yes. Whoever looked into the portress's report would sooner or later come across the case Martin had set him on. And then—

Here his thoughts faltered. He did not know where he was. He did not even know who had taken him, save that Patron-Minette had certainly played a part. He did not know what had happened to Valjean either — but they would be missed, sooner or later, and maybe there would be a trail he had overlooked.

Or even better: blackmail. Perhaps already this very minute, Cosette was paying for Valjean's release, and as much as it made his sense of duty wince, it also filled him with relief to think that Valjean would be safe, that something so precious as this man's life could be bought with a sum of money.

Javert did not think anyone would ask for money for his release. But then, there was no one to pay it. Perhaps the thought should have made him sad, but all he could feel was weary contentment that he would not drag another into this mess. Why he was still alive, he did not know. Maybe they did not want to brazenly kill an officer of the police. Maybe they would rather he slowly starve to death in this small cell. Maybe they thought he had useful information.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed his forehead against the cold metal, thinking helplessly that he would betray all the Prefecture's secrets for any news of Valjean.

He knelt there in the flickering light of the solitary lamp for a long time. At last, there was a sound, and it sent a cold wave of dread down his spine, for it was not the sound of approaching steps, but a deep, dark voice that whispered to him out of the darkness, as though all of his fears had suddenly grown a tongue.

"Javert," that voice spoke, and the sound came echoing from the shadows outside the small circle of light so that it seemed the darkness itself had come to speak to him. With a shudder, Javert thought of how he had once stood above that darkness, how he had cast himself into that abyss of his own free will.

"Javert. Why are you here, Javert?"

With false bravado, Javert stood and bristled at the darkness. 

"What were you looking for? Do you not know who you are dealing with?"

The sound had seemed to come from the right before — now it came echoing from the dark path to his left. 

"Do you know what you are dealing with, Javert?"

Now the voice seemed to come from within the very cell itself, and a shiver rolled over him. 

"I know who you are," he made himself say, staring into the darkness with his teeth bared, snarling like a caged tiger. "I know you, and you know me well. Patron-Minette. Yes, hide in the darkness like rats. I know you. I have always known you."

Laughter echoed around him. Again he thought of Valjean, and cold sweat broke out on his back.

"You are wrong, Javert. This is the Empire of Death, and I am its ruler. Welcome, Javert. Welcome to death."

Valjean, he thought again, aching, trembling — Valjean. If only he would know what had happened to Valjean.

"Cease your games," he said aloud. The laughter once more came from the corridor to his right. _Patron-Minette_ , he thought. _Focus, Javert. Focus, or you might never see him again._

"I know you. Call yourself emperor of this place if you want. I know who you are, _Claquesous_. Rat hiding in the shadows, doing the bidding of its masters, too scared to show me your face in the light. Yes. Yes, I know you well, and you know me: Javert, who unmasked you before."

He allowed himself a small smile when the laughter faded away. 

"And I know your Empire too: the catacombs, the quarries. It is not your empire, Claquesous. Again, like a rat you choose the houses of your betters to scurry about and hide from the cat."

The silence dragged on. Javert forced himself to stare into it — and had he not faced it once before? Whatever awaited at the heart of this darkness could not compare to the darkness he had faced that night upon the parapet. And still, his heartbeat echoed painfully in his chest when at last, there was the sound of steps. Slowly, they came closer — and when at last the man stepped into the light, Javert's mouth twisted into a satisfied smile.

"So. It is as I said to myself. Claquesous," he said, and grinned with the terrible joy of the tiger who finally found himself faced with his captor. "It is you. How glad I am to see you again. You left without any goodbye last time I saw you."

In the flickering lamp-light, shadows moved across the man's face. Only when he stood in front of the bars did Javert see that he wore a mask. Javert scoffed.

"Come now. We both know who you are. We both know _what_ you are."

"Do you? I would be surprised, Javert." Claquesous laughed again, his ventriloquist's laughter that resounded from everywhere around Javert, until he ached to reach out and grab the man's throat. Patience, Javert, he reminded himself. He had to think of Valjean now. 

Let Claquesous play his games. Let him enjoy his triumph at having caught Javert. Soon enough, the tables would turn — or at least, he thought, his heart contracting painfully once more, he would find out what had happened to Valjean.

"Enjoy your stay in my empire." 

The lamp was extinguished as if by a sudden gust of air. Javert could not hear a single sound. He listened for steps — but all he could hear was the thunder of his racing heartbeat. Cold sweat ran down his back. He stood still, waiting, listening, filled with a nameless dread at the darkness that surrounded him. The stone around him seemed a weight upon his back, a heaviness that grew and grew until it felt as though the walls were closing in on him, forcing him back down onto his knees at last. His head came to rest against the cool iron of the bars again. There was only the sound of his own breathing as he clutched at the bars to remind himself of this cell he was in, trying in vain to drive away the memory of the smear of blood he had seen there on the floor of Valjean's apartment.

He wanted to pray, but he could not. All he could think was _Valjean, Valjean, Valjean,_ the name pulsing through him with the throb of his heart, all of his body composed of this one single thought, his entire being reduced to one small light of supplication here in the suffocating darkness.

#

He was alone for a long time. There was no light. Claquesous did not return.

He was alone for long enough to grow hungry, and to fall asleep on the cold, hard ground, and to wake still hungry and disoriented, his eyes opening to blackness that seemed to swallow him until he had to force himself to crawl to the bars once more, to grasp them and make himself remember that he was in a cell, and that there was a path before it, and that Claquesous had come and left. He was not trapped. He was locked up, but he was not trapped. They had brought him here for a reason, and that was not his death. Claquesous had asked him nothing of worth yet, so that meant that he would be back.

It was not a reassuring thought, but again Javert made himself think of Valjean. Valjean might be suffering in the same darkness as he did. Valjean might feel as trapped and helpless as he, gripping the same bars, in a cell just further down this cave.

He called out then, and shuddered all over as his _Hello_ echoed through the blackness before him. There was no answer. He listened, but the only sound that answered him was his own panicked heartbeat. Again he called, and again — he did not know when "Hello" had turned into "Valjean," but that was what he found himself groaning hoarsely into the darkness when he came to his senses again at last, and the sound was so terrible that he clasped his fingers over his mouth to silence himself.

There was no answer. Nothing but the menacing silence that gnawed at him until he sat still and terrified, wondering whether he would ever see light again, wondering whether he had truly spoken to Claquesous, or whether he had only imagined that meeting. Once, he laughed, and the sound scared him so much that he stumbled away from the iron bars until his head hit the stone.

He slept again in the end. When he woke, there was a strange noise in the distance, and as he rested there in the darkness, he slowly realized that it was steps and the soft murmur of voices that seemed to come closer.

It was a group of men that arrived. They had brought light with them, and Javert, after what felt like an eternity in the darkness, had to blink, disoriented, as his eyes teared up. He could not make out their features, but their talk was rough, as were their voices, and with dull surrender he thought that these must be thugs sent to bring him somewhere — or to kill him, in case Claquesous had decided to get rid of him after all.

There were three of them, and they had a key to open the door to his cell. They were also armed, and one of them held a pistol pointed at him while the others roughly tied his arms behind his back as he bared his teeth at them in a snarl. Still, he did not speak, and he did not struggle. Were he to try and escape now, they might decide that he was not worth all that work and simply shoot him, while the fact that they were taking him away meant that there might be a chance to escape. Or perhaps, his heart said, still beating fearfully in his chest, perhaps he would find a hint of what had happened to Valjean.

They dragged him through the darkness that was lit only by the flickering light of their lamps. There was one on each side of him, and the third, pistol still at the ready, followed behind. The narrow cave they followed was long and dark, and once more Javert wondered where he had been brought. This was not the sewers. The air smelled somewhat dank and musty, although it was dry. The stone was roughly hewn, but there was no moisture. Every now and then, they passed another corridor leading off into the darkness, or here and there small chambers opened to the side. The catacombs, Javert thought again as he remembered Claquesous’ claim of sovereignty over this subterranean empire. Filth like Patron-Minette was well acquainted with the corridors that wormed through the ground beneath Paris. Caves, a multitude of old, abandoned mine shafts and quarries, a maze of corridors as terrifying to the uninitiated as the sewers...

At last, he stumbled into a larger cave. When he stopped for a moment, he was forcefully pushed forward. They did not give him time to look around, and there was the gun poking between his shoulder blades, but the lamps the men carried gave off enough light that he could make out strangely regular hills of soil — almost as if someone had decided to plant a garden beneath the city. 

This was where the musty smell came from, Javert thought. The air smelled of recently watered soil, and as he was pushed along into another corridor and yet another cave, he at last realized what was grown in this underground plantation.

This cave too was filled by the scent of dank earth. Here as well long lines of soil stretched out, until they were swallowed by the shadows. But here, small, white shapes grew from the earth, and Javert exhaled in sudden, stunned realization.

Mushrooms. This was a mushroom garden. Well! That in itself was perhaps not too surprising, for the growth of mushrooms in underground quarries had been popular since before Bonaparte's deposition. But now he remembered once more the talk of mushrooms in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and the empty crates, and the soil that had clung to the boots of the man he had observed there from his hiding place.

The gun prodded him more insistently, and the hands that gripped his bound arms could just as well have been iron shackles. He allowed himself to be dragged past the rows of growing mushrooms, and down a different corridor. This one was larger, and lined by rows of empty crates — just like those he had seen in the garden of the Gillenormand house.

Once more he thought of the man he had seen there in Montparnasse's company. The height was the same. The voice... that was harder. But Claquesous was a ventriloquist, and it seemed too unlikely to be coincidence. Perhaps it had been Claquesous he had observed in the garden. Javert thought once more of the conversation he had overheard, but nothing made sense. Claquesous, that rat from the shadows, that abominable spy who had been torn from Javert's hands when he had thought him firmly pinned... Claquesous was responsible for all the strange occurrences that had haunted him so these past weeks. 

Or at least partly responsible, he thought, and then remembered that Cosette had thought him the son of a vicomte. That made even less sense. Perhaps Claquesous had simply donned yet another mask: had posed as nobility in the house of the bourgeois, and once out of it, had shown his true colors once more, had murdered the man who had come to talk to Pontmercy about the house in the Rue Plumet, and then...

No, it made no sense. Why then Valjean? If this were simply blackmail, why these caves, why crates of mushrooms and men to grow and harvest and transport them?

And had not Henri looked into trouble at the markets for months now? Had not the stall that had been burned down belonged to one of those merchants who sold the champignons de Paris?

Javert grimaced with a silent laugh. Patron-Minette taking up the mushroom trade, ha! What a story that would make at the station-house.

If he would live to tell it. With gloomy fatalism he stared at the rows of empty crates as he was dragged into yet another corridor. Somewhere before him, there was light. He took a deep breath, ignoring the ache of his parched throat. What mattered was not Patron-Minette, or the mushrooms or market stalls that had troubled Henri so. What mattered was Valjean. It was of no consequence now what Claquesous wanted from him. Javert knew little of worth — but he would find a way to make a deal. He would do anything, as long as he knew what had become of Jean Valjean.

Javert had his answer when they entered the cave. It was lit by several lamps, and had been furnished to serve as an office or a living space — there was a chair and a desk, and a large table strewn with small baskets filled with mushrooms. There was Claquesous as well, not seated at the desk, but standing behind it, staring at the wall from behind his mask, and there—

Javert's heart shuddered in his chest. For a long moment he could not breathe, and it was only the men still firmly gripping his arms that kept him from flinging himself forward regardless of the gun pointed at him. There, chained to the wall before Claquesous, pale and nearly unconscious, stood Jean Valjean.

Javert groaned, his throat working as he could not tear his eyes away from the blood dripping slowly from a wound on Valjean's brow. His lip was swollen, and there was more blood there. His eyes were lined by dark circles, and the white hair that had once touched Javert's lips with such a promise of heavenly grace hung limp and dirty, caked with dust and sweat.

Javert could not speak, but at the soft sound of anguish that had escaped him, Valjean's eyes opened with obvious effort. His bruised lips parted and his body tensed all of a sudden until it seemed to Javert that he was no longer beholding a man surrendered to his fate, but a captured lion whose muscles were still flexing with dangerous strength.

"Javert," Valjean said, his eyes wide and fearful, and Javert tried desperately to force words from his dry throat, to reassure him that all would be well, that now that he had found him at last, he would be safe — but he could not make a sound, and then Claquesous turned and stared at him.

“You know him,” he said with delight, his eyes gleaming from behind the mask. “Of course. That is why you were at his apartment.”

Valjean blinked sluggishly. A tremor ran through Javert, who ached to propel himself forward, to press trembling fingers to Valjean's cheek and wipe away the blood that marred that beloved face.

Javert's throat worked again. With fear he now remembered how he had groaned Valjean's name in the darkness — had Claquesous been close? Had he been overheard? But then, if this was blackmail they would already know that Valjean was not Fauchelevent but a former convict...

"We are acquainted," Javert said at last. "I was, in fact, looking into a murder — a murder you will be well aware of, Claquesous. I had come to interview M. Fauchelevent. Well! No more need for that now, as I think I have found my murderer."

Claquesous laughed at that, but Javert noted with relief that he stepped away from Valjean to come towards him. There was still the unsettling rigidity of the barrel pressed to his back — but more importantly, there was Valjean who now relaxed in his bonds, although his eyes were filled with anguish and pain. Javert felt his heart skip and clench within his breast as he saw the shackles fastened around Valjean's wrists.

This was all wrong. Such a thing should never have happened to Valjean again. Worse: the blame for it rested solely on his own shoulders. What devil had made him remain hidden behind his bush when he had seen Valjean weep? He had thought to do right by Valjean — but was it possible that by choosing to stay away from him, Javert had hurt him even more? Javert grimaced at his own cowardice. No; no, it had not been the right thing to do at all.

"Javert, come now. No more games. Who do you think you are? I've heard all the rumors. Chabouillet doesn't trust you. Gisquet would like to beat you like an old dog — well, no wonder, with the way you've kept snapping at his wrist. _Suggestions for the good of the service_?" he said and tilted his head. "Truly, Javert? Have you gone mad at last, like they say?"

Javert stared at him, unsettled now. Again he thought of how Claquesous had vanished on the way to La Force. Again he thought of Gisquet's anger when he had mentioned him. Well, it seemed that he had been right. 

Claquesous' mile was fleeting, but full of derisive satisfaction. "There. You would do better not to underestimate me, Javert. You are a pitiful man in truth. To think that I had to wait until we were out of your sight to make my escape from that carriage! Your own superiors do not trust you. They never have. And now they think that you are mad — rightly so. So tell me, what use are you to me? I should just kill you, throw your body into the river. Or leave you down here to rot, somewhere where you can scream until your voice gives out."

Javert gnashed his teeth. "Stop this! We both know you want something from me. Why am I here? Why is M. Fauchelevent here?"

"M. Fauchelevent... Ah, yes." This time, Claquesous' voice was full of mockery, and he turned a little to look at Valjean once more, so that Javert regretted having diverted his attention back to him.

"I'm afraid that you are wrong, Javert. There is no M. Fauchelevent in this room. There is only Jean Valjean the convict."

Javert snarled and tried to tear free of the arms that held him tightly gripped, until one of the men cuffed his face and the gun was shoved hard against his brow.

"You see, Javert — usually I would think that outrage from you. A former convict! You can barely stand the knowledge that your own superiors trust me more than they trust you. And yet — why is it that when I inquired into the man Jean Valjean, your name came up, Javert? You knew that wretch in Toulon. You denounced him in Montreuil-sur-Mer. You shadowed him here in Paris a decade ago, until he fled from the Gorbeau hovel and you lost his trail. And yet, here you are standing before me now, lying to my face, to protect the identity of a convict? A wretch who clearly knows you?" 

Claquesous studied him with open joy. "And you call him your acquaintance! Javert, I am shocked! What has become of you! Has this convict uncovered some dark secret by which he holds you obedient? That is enough to make the most dour man laugh: Javert's leash held by a convict. How they will laugh in the Prefecture once that story comes out."

Javert watched Valjean, who had paled even more in anguish at Claquesous' words. His eyes were dazed, but they seemed to hold a plea — probably, Javert thought with distaste, a plea for him to behave, to not anger Claquesous further. Ha, but Valjean did not know him well. What worth was his reputation to him now? He had ended up here because of his worry for Jean Valjean. He would do what it would take to see the man safe. Having Claquesous humiliate him in the eyes of his superiors would be a small price for Valjean's life.

"You do not know me," Javert said curtly. "Nor do you know Gisquet well if you think he'll let you commit crime and murder unchecked in exchange for a few crumbs of information. You've gone too far already. They'll look into that murder, especially now that I am gone."

"Oh," Claquesous said, and this time his voice trembled with glee. "You do not know me at all, Javert. You truly have no idea of what I am capable. How amusing to have the feared Javert in my grasp at last, and to see you writhe and tremble like the worm you are. Where is your arrogance now? No, Javert. You will soon be forgotten. But I think I will let you live for a while yet. The convict is valuable to me, and who knows. Maybe you know more of his secrets than he thinks. No one is going to find you here, even if they realize that you are gone. So both of you will have a long, long time to think very carefully if you remember anything of worth to me."

"Take them both back to the cell," he said to the men who still had Javert in an iron grasp. And then, to Valjean, "You will consider what I have said, I am sure. I will be back. I'm certain you will not disappoint me then."

#

The cell they were brought to was larger than the one where Javert had spent his first night — if it had even been night. He was no longer certain quite how much time had passed. 

There was straw in one corner, and what seemed to be a hole in the ground at the back; next to it stood a wooden bucket and a rope. It had to be a well, he thought; his stomach clenched hungrily, although his thirst was even greater. Still, once the men released him and they were locked into their cell, his first action was to face Valjean, to grip his shoulders with trembling hands and peer at the wound on his brow from which blood was still trickling sluggishly. For so long he had dreamed of him that he could barely believe that he was truly touching him now. And yet Valjean was real beneath his hands: human and vulnerable and in pain, smaller than the memory of the saintly man who had nursed him back to health, and yet made larger than that old vision by the warmth of his skin and the weariness on his face.

"Are you hurt?" He could not keep the fear out of his voice, but what did it matter now that his heart trembled and his voice shook. He had thought to spare Valjean the shame of his love for him; see where that had brought them instead. Both Valjean's earlier tears and the wounds he now bore were Javert's fault. 

"Are you in pain? What did he do?"

"Javert," Valjean said in wonder, instead of answering. He raised a hand to touch Javert's cheek, as if to reassure himself that it was truly he, then flinched when Javert's own fingers came too close to the wound.

"But — Javert! What are you doing here?"

Valjean's eyes were so wide with stunned disbelief that for a moment, Javert was stunned himself. Certainly it could not come as a surprise to Valjean that Javert would be the first to follow him into danger? Had he not trailed him so carefully these past months to watch over his happiness, to—

But no, he then thought, reeling once more with that realization. Valjean had not seen him since Javert had left his care. How long had it been? Half a year now! Half a year during which Valjean would have never spoken his name, would have forgotten his existence, save, perhaps, for a fearful memory every now and then. To Valjean he must have appeared here like a demon out of his past.

He swallowed against the emotions that rose within him. How dearly he desired now to clasp Valjean in his arms, to press his lips to his brow, to tell him that he had been afraid for him, that certainly they would escape together.

Instead, Valjean looked at him warily, although he allowed Javert to keep his face cradled in his hands, his skin damp with cold sweat. His breath ghosted over Javert's own lips. Javert's eyes were drawn to Valjean's mouth; the bottom lip was swollen, and there was dried blood in the corner of his mouth, and bruising, and—

Before Javert knew it, his finger slid unbidden to touch Valjean's bruised lip. Valjean froze. His eyes widened, and he ceased to breathe, although he also did not move away. For one long moment, they stood like that, Valjean's face cradled carefully in Javert's hands, Javert's finger pressed very gently to his lip. His mouth was warm and soft, and when Valjean at last released a trembling breath, the air brushed hot and damp against his skin.

Javert did not know what to say. Somewhere within him, his heart shuddered, expanded, swelling until his ribs ached and his soul tugged at him like an imprisoned bird aching to take flight.

He lowered his hands with reluctance. "I am sorry," he said, and his voice was rough. "You are hurt. You are hurt, and I could have stopped all of this. Instead I walked right into their trap, like the fool that I am."

"A trap? But how— Tell me, Javert, how do you come to be here?"

Javert breathed in deeply as he forced himself to meet Valjean's eyes. “You are in pain. Sit down. It seems we have enough time on our hands now that I can tell you what I have found out.”

Valjean was still shaking his head in wonder even as they settled down in the straw-filled corner. Javert's throat was parched, but before he drew the bucket close, the first thing he did was to touch Valjean's hand, and draw it very carefully into his lap, and press his fingers with insurmountable regret to where now once more shackles of iron had left marks on his skin. Valjean allowed it to  
happen, although Javert could feel him tense.

“There. I did that to you,” Javert said softly, and then released Valjean with a deep sigh. Valjean drew back his hand, although he moved slowly, and then rubbed his wrist, lost in thought. He did not move away, which reassured Javert. They sat so close that their shoulders were touching.

“Let me start at the beginning then. It all began when I followed a man I suspected to a wine-shop in the Rue des Lombards...”


	9. To Rest on the Paw of the Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in a cell, Javert and Valjean finally find time to talk and to rest.

The story was told quickly. In the end, he felt shame at seeing it laid out like that: Montparnasse, the conversation he had overheard, the murder. He even offered up the story of how he had listened to Montparnasse and Claquesous talk in the garden of the Gillenormand mansion, fearful that Valjean would demand to know why he had been there in the first place – but Valjean was quiet. When Javert at last turned towards him, he found him still pale, his head resting against the wall of their cell, weary and withdrawn.

“It is worse than I thought,” Valjean murmured when Javert fell silent. “That you are here – I do not understand it. What made God send you to this place? I thanked Him that it was only myself. I could withstand any torture and know myself grateful to die protecting her – but you, Javert! You do not deserve to be here. You should not be here!”

Javert drew the bucket close and greedily gulped down handfuls of water. Then he soaked a corner of his shirt, and, after a moment's hesitation, carefully cradled Valjean's face in his hands once more. The blood had dried, and he could not bear to look at Valjean like this. The sight of dark blood against the white of his hair made him feel sick. Better to suffer his heart fluttering in his chest at the touch than to look at Valjean beaten and bloodied.

“I am sorry,” he said again, then froze when Valjean raised his face to meet his eyes.

“But what are you sorry for, Javert? You had no hand in this. That man wanted me, and now, because of me, you are in danger.”

There were wrinkles around Valjean's eyes, shadows like bruises – and there were real bruises too, discolored skin at his jaw, the cut on his brow, the swollen lip. Javert could see the markings of pain not just in the bruises and the blood, but in the deep weariness of Valjean's eyes and the harsh lines at his mouth. There was a deep crease between his brows too, and Javert ached to lean forward and smooth it away with his fingers, to use his unskilled hands for the first time in his life to give warmth and comfort.

“I? In danger?” Javert reeled at the thought that Valjean could be worried for him. 

“Well, perhaps!” he admitted after a moment, for it was true: here he was, captive of a masked man in a cave below the earth. “But Valjean, they wanted _you_! I came upon their plans by accident! I mean nothing to them. But you – you are important enough to abduct. To kill. To–”

He made another unhappy sound when Valjean blinked and raised a trembling hand to touch one of the scabbed-over wounds. Had they knocked him out as well when they took him? Rage rose within Javert at the thought. Or had they hurt him – had they hurt him here, while only a few passages away Javert had cried his name in the dark, useless for all that he had sworn to himself to guard Valjean with his life?

Valjean's fingers prodded again at the dried blood, and Javert shuddered, watching himself reach out once more to wipe the wet cloth gently over the wound. Valjean's hand fell away, and they looked at each other. Valjean did not move. He seemed completely passive, once more inert beneath Javert's touch save for the way his chest rose and fell with every breath. 

Valjean's eyes were wide and weary; if he had resisted Claquesous with all of his formidable strength, it seemed that his power was sapped now. Javert had seen that look before. Valjean had looked up at him like that when he had dragged the boy from the sewers, when Javert had leaned over him and grasped his shoulders, terrible triumph swelling within him at last when Valjean remained motionless and allowed Javert to manhandle him. 

Javert had never felt anything sweeter than that moment of surrender when Valjean had looked at him with a fearful exhaustion, no longer running, no longer struggling.

That moment had been indescribable. And then that new-formed conscience within him had pierced his flesh with its fangs and threatened to rend him apart, and Javert, who had stood panting over Valjean with terrible satisfaction, had watched himself assist the man to carry the boy to the carriage, all triumph torn from him to be replaced by lethal doubt.

How strange to find himself returned to that moment now. 

Valjean submitted to his touch without protest, not flinching back even when Javert's fingers touched the bruise. His eyes had darkened with pain, and his lips parted a little – they were so close his breath escaped hot against Javert's skin. And still he remained in Javert's grasp, all strength gone from him, and Javert's tongue grew thick and heavy in his mouth as he remembered the triumph he had once felt at the sight.

There was no triumph in him now. Only the terrified beating of his heart at the warmth of Valjean's breath, and the fear that those dark eyes would see right to the core of him, and the sin hidden there.

“They hurt you,” he said at last, trying to remember his line of thought. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, and he prayed that Valjean would blame it on weariness. 

Javert clenched his jaw as he finished wiping at the flakes of dried blood. “I cannot stand the sight,” he then muttered to himself, teasing another clump from a lock of hair. “The blood on you, I–”

He forced himself to bite back the words. _What a fool I am making of myself,_ he thought, and yet he could not look away from where Valjean still allowed him to cradle his head. 

“They hurt you, and they did it for a reason. And you are in pain, and exhausted, and I–”

His nostrils flared in disgust as he thought of the sight he had to make, of what Valjean was seeing: Javert, that feared demon who had hunted him for so long, hunched over him once more, clad in his dark coat, missing only cudgel and hat to take his place in whatever nightmares surely still must be plaguing Valjean every night.

He let go of Valjean, and then swiftly pulled off his coat. Valjean watched him with wariness, and raised a hand when Javert spread the coat over him, but Javert did not allow any protest.

“You have been here for longer, and it is not so cold. You need rest.” Without conscious thought, Javert found himself smoothing his hand over the black fabric, then quickly pulled it away at the sensation of Valjean's chest rising and falling beneath his hand. He turned his head to hide the way his face had heated.

“Now, do you want to sleep for a while?” he asked, even though there were still so many questions unanswered. But Valjean shook his head even as he sunk back against the wall. 

“No. It will be a while before he returns. And I know you deserve answers.”

A moment passed. Then, when Valjean spoke again, his voice was quiet and full of uncertainty. “You should not be here, Javert. I had not known that you were investigating them. I had not even thought of you for so long – you have to believe that. I never thought that you might come after me and get hurt.”

Javert tried to hide the sting of those words. Of course Valjean had not thought of him since he left – what reason would there have been? Had he not told himself the same? That Valjean had a family, was loved and happy, and had no reason at all to think of Javert save with fear?

Still, it hurt to hear the truth of those words from Valjean. But then, had he truly desired Valjean to think of him as a friend one day, perhaps he should have acted like a friend instead of watching from the shadows, as though Valjean were still that criminal whose goodness he had refused to see.

Slowly, he reached out and covered Valjean's hand with his own. That was how one would offer support, he thought, feeling strangely unsettled by the way his larger hand so easily encompassed Valjean's. After a heartbeat, he drew it away again, embarrassed by how his stomach lurched with fear that the touch might have been unwelcome.

“Was it blackmail? It must have been,” he said, as much to cover his uncertainty as from curiosity. 

"Blackmail? No, it was..." Valjean moistened his lips, the lines around his mouth deepening with pain when he touched the cut in a corner. 

Javert looked at the small wound and tried to imagine it: a man raising his hand against Valjean. A man hitting Valjean. He felt sick with rage and disgust – but then, how often had Valjean been hurt while Javert had served in Toulon? 

Here, with Valjean covered by his own dirt-stained coat, that beloved, venerable white head pillowed only by stone, he forced himself to accept the truth of that past, to pull forth that vision with his hands and hold it in his mind and grip it firmly, regardless of how much the jagged edges of that truth cut into his flesh. Valjean, the convict. The red cap, the shorn head, the dull, angry eyes, the body rank with sweat and dirt. 

Could he now take that filthy head from his memories into his hands and feel compassion, and hurt for that man's pain? Could he brush his fingertips against a bruise and dream of pressing his lips to the convict's mouth?

It was not impossible to imagine, he decided, his mouth suddenly dry. Were it Valjean, he could do that. Kiss him. Touch him. See the man beneath the red blouse, the good man, the saint wearing convict's garb.

Yet were it not Valjean, were it any other prisoner – could he feel compassion then, too? A part of him shied away from the image that opened up in his mind. It was impossible to think of it. The hardened men he had known, the criminals: murderers, thieves, forgers – should he have to hold their hands and clean their bruises and pretend that he did not know well enough that the murderer, when managing to escape, would kill again and soon return? 

In frustration, he pulled at his whiskers again. No, it was impossible. Not everyone could be Valjean. No one was like Valjean.

But had he not thought it impossible too that Valjean could ever be more than thief, than convict, and had he not been wrong about that as well?

He exhaled deeply. There was little left to him now but doubt, and perhaps that was as it should be. He could no longer trust his judgment. There were no answers – only that invisible chain that bound him to Valjean, the chain of which Valjean was not even aware, although he pulled on it with every smile, every look, every word, leaving Javert no choice but to follow, ever the obedient dog.

"It was not blackmail," Valjean said at last. "I walked into a trap. I did not know I was followed home. I did not expect – you see, I had even stopped fearing arrest."

"Arrest!" Javert could not help to echo, feeling a short burst of indignation that was soon drowned in a sorrow so deep that for a moment, he thought he would make his humiliation complete and break into tears in front of Valjean. He raised a trembling hand, pressed it hard against his eyes, and then lowered it again, as weighed down with dejection and misery as he had felt when faced with M. Gisquet's reprimand – or, much earlier, when he had stepped before another superior, M. Madeleine, to confess his misdoings and await his dismissal.

And was this not the same? To think that Valjean still thought him capable of such a thing – that was a reprimand more hurtful than M. Gisquet's shouts or M. Chabouillet's look of disappointment.

"Valjean," he said, his voice soft and shaken with the hint of tears he had suppressed. "Were they to try and arrest you, I swear I should cut you free myself. Is it – what can I do to make you believe that you have nothing to fear from me ever again?"

Valjean did not speak. His eyes were still dull with pain, and Javert swallowed down bile at the thought that all these long months, while he had writhed at night under the tormenting dreams of Valjean's hands on him, Valjean had remained in his apartment, as quiet and fearful as he had been when Javert had still taken up his bed, listening for steps on the stair every night that would signal Javert's arrival with the chains.

He leaned back a little and forced himself to breathe deeply, his eyes still stinging in that unfamiliar way. Well, Valjean was right, of course. What reason had he to trust Javert? Javert had no right to demand Valjean's friendship after all these years. If he wanted to be worthy of Valjean's trust, he would have to prove himself worthy – not through words, but through deeds. And what a tremendous job he had done of that so far, he thought bitterly, sneaking after Valjean like a lovelorn schoolboy, blind to Valjean's pain and fear.

"This is my fault," he said suddenly. The words ached in his throat as though they were sharp glass. But he had confessed his crimes to this man before. He could do so again. "You would not be here had I talked to you. You might not have thought of me, Valjean – but I thought of you. And I was a coward, or I would have gone and talked to you, and then you might not have been here."

Valjean closed his eyes, exhaustion and confusion warring on his face. "I do not know what you are talking of, Javert," he said after a moment. "Talk to me... for what reason? You blame yourself too much. And they would have found a way. They wanted me. They wanted me for the house, you see. It has nothing to do with you."

"The house in the Rue Plumet." Javert thought once again of Valjean vanishing through that hidden door. "The house with the secret door in the Rue du Babylone."

Valjean opened his eyes and looked up sharply at that name. "How–"

Javert swallowed. "I saw," he admitted, flushing with embarrassment. "I told you it is all my fault. I followed you through that door. I saw you in the garden. And I did not speak to you. Do you understand now? I was a coward.”

“Javert, I have never known you to be a coward.” Valjean tensed as if to sit up, but then closed his eyes and bit back a groan. After a moment, when he spoke again, he sounded weighed down by weariness. “No. No, I don't understand, Javert. Why were you there? To arrest me?”

The sound that escaped Javert was half laugh and half sob. Did Valjean so little believe in his impassioned declarations of loyalty? But then, what reason did he have to believe Javert? And what reason was there to shadow Valjean, unless he were trying to spy on a criminal?

“Because I...” Javert hesitated for a moment and nervously licked his lips as he searched for words. _Because I love you_ , that foolish, aching heart in his chest supplied, and he paled to hear it spoken even in his own mind. “Because I care for you,” he finally said, turning his head a little in embarrassment. If Valjean looked disbelieving at such a declaration, he did not think he could bear to see it. To be the loyal guard dog slinking after his unaware master was one thing. To gaze with adoration at a man who was afraid of his presence....

“I left, and I did not give you much explanation for that,” he said at last to break the silence. “I am sorry. You must think that I have not changed very much. But you saved me, in more ways than you can imagine. You need not believe it, but I was afraid for you. I thought you were walking into a trap, that Patron-Minette had blackmailed you.”

Valjean was silent for a moment. “Ah, I see,” he said at last, and silently, yearningly, Javert thought _no, you do not_.

“Well, it is time for more confessions,” he then said. “We have time now, it seems, and no other distractions. You must forgive me. I should not have watched you. But I saw you weep in the garden. This is how I know that I am terrible still: I saw you weep and did not reach out to you. Had I done so, we might have talked, and I would have told you about my fears about Patron-Minette; you would have been aware and careful, and you would not be here now.”

With a pained sigh, Valjean shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Javert clenched his hands until he could not bear it anymore, and at last he moved forward to lean his back against the cold, rough stone next to Valjean, and with fingers that trembled at his own audacity, gently drew that weary head to rest on his thigh.

Valjean did not speak, and Javert did not know what to say. His heart ached once again in his chest, and his fingers yearned to spread and touch the fine, white hair resting in tangles against his trousers.

"Javert, I never expected anything like that from you." Valjean's voice was soft and tentative, and Javert could feel the tension in his body. All the same, Valjean did not move away. When Javert looked down on him, he could see the strong, broad shoulders bowed, as though Valjean were still carrying a heavy weight of which he could not be relieved even when at rest. Had Valjean always been so thin? Javert had observed him for so long – but it had not been apparent beneath the coat and hat he had worn on his walks to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Javert swallowed as he watched a tendon stand out in stark contrast at his neck. How pale Valjean's skin was. How thin it seemed. No, Valjean did not look well at all, and again he remembered the way Valjean had fallen to his knees as if pushed down by a heavy burden, how those strong shoulders had trembled as he wept, thinking himself all alone.

He had not seen it then, but if he had only truly looked, Javert would have been able to tell that Valjean was not well. 

"I know you did not," Javert said at last. There was a thin sheen of dampness at Valjean's nape – sweat, or perhaps water from when he had tried to clean off the worst of the dirt and sweat and dried blood. "Believe me, I know that you had no reason to think of me at all after I left. You owe me nothing, Valjean. That is as it should be. But I owe you everything. I do not ask for forgiveness. But I tell you that I have made a mistake yet again, and that it is partly my fault that you are here now."

Valjean was still tense. Javert prayed that he would not move away. It was strange to feel him so close – but also, Valjean was exhausted and in pain. He deserved what little comfort and sleep could be found here. _Let me be his pillow_ , Javert thought humbly. _This body will serve a greater purpose than it ever has before._

After a moment, when Valjean still had not moved, although Javert could feel his tension in the way he breathed carefully, as though his head were resting on the paw of a tiger instead of in the lap of a friend, Javert forced himself to relax, leaning his head against the hard wall.

"You need to sleep. I will stay awake. You do believe I will not do you harm?"

Another long pause, and then Valjean exhaled slowly, deeply, his tired, bruised body relaxing at last. Javert watched the way the hair curled at his nape, sticking to the damp skin. He ached to reach out and gently wash the sweat away with a cool cloth, to give what ease he could – but would it be welcome?

He supposed it would give more ease to him than to Valjean, and so instead he forced himself to keep still, and watched as Valjean's body gradually relaxed. And was this not strange, too? That Valjean should take the small amount of comfort Javert could provide? 

It did not mean anything, he told himself. Valjean was not his friend. He had obsessed about him for months, while Valjean in turn had been plagued by some invisible weight. To be his friend would have meant to see that weight, and to help him carry it.

And yet Valjean had not been his friend either when he had pulled him from the river and coaxed him back to life. Javert told himself that he had no right to hope for friendship still – but he did owe a debt, and he could try to prove himself worthy of the sacrifices Valjean had made in saving him by trying to save Valjean now, and not ask for anything in return. Not friendship. Not touch. Not–

He looked again where sweat gleamed at Valjean's nape and imagined pressing his lips to that spot, where the skin was thin and tender, where the pulse beat hot and fast, where, perhaps, Valjean had never known a touch but that of the soft tips of his hair...

Javert heard the sound of the iron collar riveted, saw before his eyes the chain-gang, and wanted to laugh in helpless despair.

How easy it was to forget these things. Not so easy for Valjean, he was certain. What right had Javert to even dream of his friendship?

"Javert... Yes. I do believe that," Valjean finally murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. His breath was warm against Javert's thigh.

Javert hesitated for a long moment. Finally, hardly able to believe his own daring, he rested his hand gently on Valjean's head, his hair soft against his palm despite the dirt and sweat that clung to it. Valjean tensed again – but Javert did not move, even though he hardly knew what to do with himself, for it seemed impossible that his heart should be able to contain such feelings of unbearable tenderness.

His hand did not know what tenderness was. It was large and strong, and had served him well for all of his life; it knew how to grasp and enchain – but did it know how to comfort? Could he teach himself such a thing?

Valjean had fallen limp against him, and his breathing was deep and regular. With a shock, Javert realized that he had fallen asleep. And he had not protested the touch, had relaxed into sleep despite it...

Javert looked in wonder at where his long fingers curved gently around the head of this man he had once thought he would never see again. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps even hands such as his could learn to give comfort instead of pain.

Valjean slept, and Javert watched over him, and for a few hours, he tried not to think of the bruises on Valjean's skin and the man who had left them there, but of the fact that Valjean allowed this touch from him. 

_What a fool I am_ , he thought again in deep weariness. Perhaps, if he had remained, he might have found a way to prove himself worthy of friendship after all.

#

In the morning – if morning it was, for there was no natural light here by which to tell the passage of time – they rose and washed as well as they were able to. Javert could not help but watch Valjean furtively. This time, there was little pleasure in seeing that broad, strong back bared. Valjean's skin was pale and the muscles and tendons showed in a way that seemed to signal starvation to him rather than the man's formidable strength. The knobs of his spine showed starkly, a shadowed line of small hills and valleys, and for a heartbeat Javert wondered what it would feel like to run his hand along that line and commit every rise and fall of skin and muscle and bone to his memory.

Then Valjean moved, and the light of the lamp fell upon him from a different angle, and Javert saw instead the white lines that crossed his back, old memories of tortures long past. For a moment he could not breathe as he tried to reconcile his memory of a prisoner lashed with this kind, good man who had only ever done right, and who had touched Javert with such gentle hands when Javert's own hands had caused him, or others like him, only torment.

Valjean turned and saw him staring. For one horrified moment Javert choked on an explanation – but then Valjean bent down to pick up his shirt as though nothing had happened, although he was flushing now, and he did not meet Javert's eyes as he pulled the shirt back on.

"I apologize," Javert heard himself saying, to his own surprise. His face was hot, and he felt vaguely sick. What must Valjean think of him? "It was – your scars."

He tried to breathe deeply, but it felt almost like drowning all over again; something was lodged in his throat and he could not take in enough air. But had he not told himself he would be a coward no longer? The last time he had been afraid of speaking to Valjean had ended in this...

"I did that to you. Or men like me. I am not going to ask for forgiveness, because you would give it, and I do not deserve it. I wish I could undo it – I cannot.” He clenched his jaw, pulled at his whiskers again in frustration, then forced himself to lower his hands although his fingers ached to grasp something, anything, to break this turmoil. 

“What can I say? I can only offer this: to you, to God, to any whom I might have wronged. To your girl's mother – Fantine. Fantine was her name. To so many. It will not happen again. My hands will never again be used for such a thing. I will – I cannot undo it. But I will not become so terrible again."

Valjean swallowed. Javert could see his throat working as he searched for words. His face was still flushed; there was that accursed heat rising in Javert's stomach as he wondered whether that flush would spread to Valjean's nape as well, and whether the tender skin there would be hot if he touched his lips to it.

He might have said more. He might have sliced open his chest and watched with relief as the alien things that had grown in his heart spilled out at last. Perhaps Valjean with his strong, gentle pruner's hands would be able to make sense of it; or else, Javert would be happy to let Valjean sort through his insides and throw out what offended, and let Javert keep only what pleased.

What a relief it would be to be remade in such a way.

But he could not bare himself to Valjean like that. Not yet, and perhaps never. Valjean would be taken aback by such a request. Valjean had his daughter; he had no need of a friend who ached to kneel before him and cut open his chest to pull out his heart in offering.

 _Did_ Valjean still have a daughter? Javert looked up and fixed Valjean with a stare.

"I spoke to your daughter, by the way. I had to, you see: the murder. I did not speak of you. But she called you M. Jean. Why are you no longer _father_? Why did you walk, and weep, and–"

Javert broke off again to stem the rising flood of emotion. His head swam; he felt as dizzy as when Valjean had fed him the laudanum during those first days. What had he missed? Should he not ask other questions? What did Claquesous want; what were their plans with the house; was there a trail that would lead the commissaire to him?

Instead, he could not stop himself from lingering on where Valjean's shirt clung to his damp skin. Again he thought of the scars beneath, and of the strong body that now seemed strangely translucent – the old strength still there, but hidden behind a thin veil, as though a part of Valjean had already decided to leave.

And was that not what he had thought in the garden as well? Valjean had seemed to him like a man suffering heartbreak because he had to go on a journey and leave behind what he loved. And in the Gillenormand house as well they had spoken of how busy he was. 

Javert no longer thought there was any truth to that, now that he saw Valjean before him. 

"Javert, please–" 

Valjean's voice was soft and helpless. It pained Javert to force Valjean to think of something that seemed to hurt him – and yet. No longer could he only watch and pretend that he had no right to interfere. No one else had interfered, after all. If Javert was the only one left to do that task, then he would devote himself to it and at last know himself blessed with a trail to follow that would not lead him back onto the path of terribleness.

Valjean raised a hand to his face and turned away. Javert waited patiently at first, but when Valjean remained silent, he finally realized that Valjean's shoulders were shaking. Stunned, aching with that new, unbearable fear that he had hurt Valjean once more, he reached out – and Valjean, although he flinched at first, did not move away, but bore his touch.

Dumbfounded, Javert stared at where his hand now rested on Valjean's shoulder. Beneath the large hand that still seemed as stunned as Javert himself to touch without grasping, the strong body continued to tremble.

Was this how you comforted one in need? Javert did not know how to do such a thing. He had never done it before.

But Valjean did not shake off his hand, and so Javert supposed it was not unwelcome. He forced himself to ignore the strange flutter that almost felt like fear when Valjean turned at last, and a finger grazed the warm, sweaty skin of Valjean's nape for a second.

He should release him now, he thought. He would scare Valjean if he kept this up.

And yet he could feel the heat of Valjean through his shirt, the warmth of this living, breathing man who had filled his every waking thought for so very long – and all the while, while he had dreamed, Valjean had hurt.

Javert took a deep breath. His hand still rested gently on Valjean's shoulder. Beneath the pad of one finger he could feel damp skin that threatened to sear him with its heat.

"Valjean," he said hopelessly, feeling lost and out of place. Valjean deserved a friend. But Javert was the only one who was here. 

He clenched his jaw. Then he looked at Valjean's face again. His eyes were dry, but they were hollow, and there were harsh lines surrounding them, deep wrinkles around his mouth where pain had cut him like a knife. Valjean looked old and worn, as though a cruel wind had eaten at him while Javert had been gone and eroded away the substance of the once-strong body.

Bruises still bloomed sickly on Valjean's temple and cheeks. His lip was swollen and red where the cut had scabbed over. Javert ached to touch with gentleness instead, to give comfort by tracing all those marks with his fingertips – but such a thing was impossible.

He choked on the emotion rising in his chest. 

"Valjean, I would be your friend in this place, if you let me," he finally said, his voice so rough he nearly did not understand himself. Valjean's chest rose and fell. His eyes, still dark and dull from pain and weariness, did not lift to meet Javert's until long minutes had passed. But when they did, the hollowness in them scared Javert so much that he nearly took a step backwards in his shock. For a moment, he thought that he once more saw the abyss gaze at him, that groaning darkness this man had saved him from.

"That is kind of you to offer, Javert," Valjean said at last, and his voice too sounded strange. It was flat, as though all emotion had been torn away by the same cruel wind that had eaten at him until all that was left was this shell filled by sadness. "But it is too late now. I hope you will not worry for me anymore. You see, I did not care so much when they brought me here. I had nothing left, and it seemed right that I should die to keep her secret as well as my own."

Then Valjean shuddered so that at last Javert's hand fell off him. Valjean took a step back, and when he raised his eyes to Javert once more, they were full of anguish. "Only you should not be here. You should not die, Javert. Why did you have to come?"

Now, at last, the tears came once more, and Valjean turned away to sit on their small pallet of straw. Javert watched him, stunned and uncertain how to react. Again he ached with a need he could not understand – a need to reach out, perhaps, and give succor. But how did one do such a thing?

Once more he felt as though he were disturbing something fundamentally private, and a shame even deeper than that of observing Valjean wash himself filled him. Should he not leave him be now? Should he not allow Valjean to mourn alone for whatever had wrought this change in him?

Again Javert thought of the garden, and of Valjean's tears, and of where it had lead them. No. 

He forced his body forward. One step, then another. It almost seemed to him that another person was walking towards Valjean. Certainly it could not be Javert. Javert did not know how to comfort, or how to be a friend.

But at last he knelt behind Valjean, his knees aching on the cold, hard stone, his hand resting very gently on Valjean's shoulder once more. His skin was damp with cold sweat, and Javert resisted the instinctive urge to stroke down his back, the way he had observed others do. He had no memory of ever having done so himself, save, perhaps, as an unconscious gesture meant to calm a horse.

But Valjean was no horse. Valjean was no beast. Valjean was something precious, something impossible to understand.

Valjean was also in pain, and that much Javert understood and ached to set right, even though he could not think of a way. But it was all he could offer, and as there was nothing else for Valjean to draw strength from, he hoped that it would be enough.

"I am your friend, Jean Valjean," he said at last, shivering a little with how heavy and unfamiliar the words felt on his tongue. He wondered if Valjean had ever spoken them. "I am your friend."


	10. The Death and Rebirth of a Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some questions are answered, new questions are raised, and Valjean has to face Claquesous’ questioning as well.

Javert could not say how long they had remained there on their knees in the small cave that served as their cell, both hurting, although for different reasons.

At last, the trembling of Valjean's shoulder beneath Javert's hand ceased. Suddenly shy, Javert thought that now was the time to pull away. To offer comfort was one thing – but to touch Valjean so familiarly, now that the worst had to be over, certainly that was too much?

He looked again at his large hand splayed across Valjean's shoulder as if in threat. What did he know of comfort? Valjean was warm and reassuringly real beneath his hand. He should withdraw and give Valjean the space he deserved. He found that he could not.

He did not speak until Valjean at last turned around. The tears on his face had already dried, but the shadows beneath his eyes were deeper, his eyes seemed more hollow.

"Javert," Valjean said, and his voice cracked. His flush deepened. He raised a hand to wipe at his reddened eyes; Javert's free hand clenched helplessly when instinct and courtesy bade him offer a handkerchief.

They did not have such luxuries here, he reminded himself. And once they were freed, such tears and his unskilled attempt at comforting could be ascribed to captivity. They need not remember this moment.

He could not bear that thought.

"You have been on my mind for a long time. Longer than you know," he said quietly. "I want to be your friend. I do not know how to be a friend. But I want to see you happy, and healthy, and free. I ask for nothing in return. I know I do not deserve your consideration. But you thought me worth saving once. Please also think me worthy enough to allow me to show that I have changed."

At his words, Valjean straightened. The shadows around his eyes remained, but there was a hint of the old light in them as he studied Javert.

"You need not prove anything to me," he said at last. Javert shivered at the unexpected warmth in his voice. It rolled over him like a wave and made him want to lean forward and press Valjean's hand in gratitude, offering up his devotion and loyalty like a mongrel who had been given a taste of good meat.

"Javert, you are here with me. I wish it were not so. I wish it for your sake; I never wanted to see you harmed. But you came after me because you were worried. You wanted to save me. Of course I believe you."

Javert exhaled deeply in relief. He did not quite know how to smile, but he felt the corners of his mouth turn up. He prayed it might not be a grimace. The smile felt strange on his face – but also, it made Valjean's face light up with the barest hint of a smile in return.

"Javert," he murmured. "Javert. You came after me. I never would have thought... Why did you leave?"

Javert's heart trembled. Had now come that dreaded moment when he would take leave of his senses and speak the terrible truth? Would he confess to this man how much he yearned to curve his hands around his face and hold him still and kiss his lips?

He could not reveal that secret – could he? And yet, had he not learned by now that it was the keeping of secrets that was at the root of the events of the past days? On the other hand, would not Valjean forever look at him in disgust, or maybe pity? If he could have friendship, and if he could shut those other parts of his heart safely away, was that not more than he already deserved? Should he not be content?

The light of the lamp in the corridor flickered and drew his eye. He thought he heard a thump somewhere in the distance. At the sound, Valjean tensed – and then bent his head in surrender.

"They are returning," he said with a terrible calmness. 

"Valjean..." Again Javert felt his heart struggle against the confines of his chest. The thought of someone doing harm to Valjean was unimaginable. His hand rested on his Valjean's arm again – he looked at it in stunned surprise, for he could not remember reaching out. But there his fingers remained, tightening in despair now to grasp the stained, white linen.

"Do not worry for me. We are in God's hands now. Whatever His plan for me, I will accept it," Valjean said, his voice small and frail all of a sudden. A shock went through Javert when Valjean's hand came to cover his own, lingering just for a moment, tentative but warm. "Please, Javert. Give him no reason to hurt you. So far he has none."

Javert swallowed, his throat so tight that he could not speak. There was the sound of voices now, slowly coming closer. He thought he saw the distant gleam of lamps.

"Valjean. Valjean, I–" Everything turned before him. He would give his life in exchange for Valjean's, he thought – but his life was of no worth to these men. He could only watch and observe how Valjean's shoulders bent even more until it seemed as if Valjean carried all the weight of the world, an impossible Atlas shouldering a burden that had never deserved so noble a bearer. 

"I only wish," Valjean said, his voice very soft now. He sighed with a terrible melancholy, his head already turned away from Javert as though he were looking at another. "I only wish I could have talked to her one last time. To ask her for forgiveness. I only wanted her to be happy, you see. I thought she would be happy and safe once I was gone. And now I cannot even be certain of that."

Javert drew in a shaky breath. His daughter – Valjean had to be talking of Cosette. But why speak of forgiveness when the girl loved him still and had missed him so obviously?

He could make no sense of it – but then it was too late. Valjean gently pried his hand free, squeezing it once, hesitantly, as though the thought of comforting Javert was as strange to him as it was to Javert, and moved a step away from him.

Javert recognized the men who arrived as the ones who had dragged him here a day ago. He eyed them – he knew how strong Valjean was, and they were two against three. The odds were not impossible. In fact, this might be a better chance than anything they might find in the future – but the men carried guns, and kept them trained on them while they motioned Valjean forward to chain his hands even before they opened the door. Javert ground his teeth in impotent rage as he saw cold iron clasp the wrists that still carried the scars of past cruelty.

What was this change in him good for then if he could not even keep it from happening again? What could he have been spared for but for this?

They sneered at him as they dragged Valjean away. Javert tried to get one last look at his face, but Valjean's head was bent, his air once more that of a man who had been crushed by an impossible weight and no longer had the strength to lift a hand in protest, or to plead for help. 

Javert threw himself against the bars with a low groan of rage when they were gone. The iron did not even tremble, although his ribs ached. He did it once more, twice – then he gave up and, panting, returned to the pallet of straw – where they had rested, where he had been allowed to give what little comfort he could – and buried his face in his hands. Anger throbbed beneath the surface of his skin, bubbling up here and there in violent eruptions that had him reach out to grasp and tear at the straw. Once he punched the wall in his frustration, and then nearly cried in pained defeat when his scraped knuckles burned with pain.

"Fool," he muttered, furious. "Fool, fool – you let them take him. You let it happen. You did not even try to– What a great fool you are, Javert. Take a good look at yourself. This is what you have become."

Again he thought of the garden, and of how Valjean had wept with a deep, private grief. How little it would have taken to avert all of this. One kind touch, one word – Valjean was generous, Valjean would not have held it against him had Javert floundered and failed to find the right words. Valjean had been alone and in need of a friend, and now he was questioned – might be hurt.

Might be killed!

An agonized groan escaped Javert, and he sprung up again, pacing the small cave with long strides, back and forth, a caged tiger giving voice to his rage with sounds of deep frustration. At last he stopped in front of the bars again, grasped them once more – Valjean had fled the jail in Montreuil, he thought feverishly, Valjean had escaped Toulon – had contrived a way to escape the Orion! Valjean had even escaped him in Paris when he thought him firmly pinned in a cul-de-sac! It had to be possible to escape. Valjean was too anguished over Cosette and whatever strange sadness had taken him, but when he returned, Javert would find a way to talk sense into him. They would find a way out – did not convicts know all sorts of tricks? Was it not perhaps a good thing that Valjean should have learned from the worst, if that was what would save Valjean's life now?

Javert slowly sank to his knees in front of the bars, trying to pray although his lips would form no other word than _Valjean_.

That was when he heard the moans.

He froze. He pressed himself against the bars, listening for something, anything, that would tell him that this was not Valjean – maybe they had animals down here, he thought and shuddered, a lonely dog guarding the caves – maybe they had other prisoners – there was no reason to believe that he and Valjean were the only victims! The sounds could come from anywhere. There could be another cell just like this around the corner with an innocent who had rented the wrong house as well, or someone who had overheard the wrong conversation, or–

Again a soft, terrible moan floated through the empty corridor. It was not a sound of pain, Javert told himself, even as he pressed himself against the bars until his chest ached, clenching his jaw and grasping the iron as if to force them out of his way by sheer force of will.

They did not give. There was nothing but the silence and the empty cave and the occasional sounds of pain drifting his way like ghosts, bringing a tale of torment that frightened and shook him to the core of his being. At last he was on his knees in front of the bars, curled in on himself, his hands clenched into fists against his head – he had tried to cover his ears, but that had given rise to an even greater terror. He could not bear it to leave Valjean alone in this, even though all the comfort he could offer was to listen, and to pray to a God who had allowed Valjean to be taken, offering up his own life in exchange for Valjean's.

The sounds ceased at last. It might not even have been long, but he had lost all sense of time. His heart was racing in his chest, beating against his ribs like a heavy hammer that would soon shatter that fragile cage of bone. His hair hung down around his face in limp, matted strands of gray, twisted into knots by his despairing hands.

He gasped for air. His cheeks were wet. He reached up and rubbed at his face, barely able to feel his own hand, his entire soul still listening, bent towards that single sound that would let him know that Valjean was well. That Valjean was still alive–

He cut off the thought, a sound of anguish escaping him that reverberated through the silent corridor like the howl of a dog.

Again he fell silent, pressing his forehead against the cruel, cold iron as he panted, waiting. Praying, if it could be called that to unceasingly offer his life, his soul, every minute that still remained of his life to God's service if only it would return Valjean to him safely.

 _Let him not be dead,_ he prayed soundlessly, clasping his hands as tears dripped down his cheeks to fall onto the stony ground.

_Let him not be dead. Please. Please._

And there, at last, came a sound in the distance. No moan this time; no sound of pain and anguish. Steps, he thought and straightened, his face pale and damp with cold sweat.

Steps. That meant that they were returning Valjean to him now. This meant that in a moment, he would be able to touch Valjean, to reassure himself that he was alive, that he was well, that maybe, Valjean had already come up with some sort of plan to help them escape this place of terror...

His thoughts were buried beneath a wave of cold dread once the men came close enough that he could see Valjean stumbling between them, still chained, his head hanging very low.

Javert stood and reluctantly stepped aside when they pointed the pistols at him again, baring his teeth at them in his frustration, a growl rising somewhere inside his chest. Would it not be worth it, he asked himself even as he watched them push Valjean inside through the unlocked door, would it not be worth it to risk being shot if it meant that he could get his hands on them, if he could wrap his fingers around a neck and squeeze with all his might until the brute went limp, until he would never raise a hand against Valjean again...

Valjean groaned dizzily when his knees hit the ground. Javert was by his side in a heartbeat, ignoring the pistols as he laid his hand with utmost care against Valjean's shoulder, wanting to weep as he felt this strong man shiver with weakness and pain.

"What did they do? Are you hurt?" he asked, his fingers trembling with the need to raise Valjean's face and trace the surface of it, marking every bruise down upon a tally in his mind to collect this debt with interest from Claquesous himself in good time.

"Are you well? Valjean..."

Valjean trembled. When he moved, another groan escaped him, although he allowed Javert to help him straighten. Fury and frustrated pain congealed in Javert's stomach as he saw that Valjean's shirt was torn in places, and that he was bleeding from new cuts. 

"Come, lie down," he murmured. "It is not far. You will feel better to rest on the straw. Come."

Valjean's movements were very slow and accompanied by soft sounds of weariness and pain that stabbed Javert's heart like a knife. He clenched his teeth with rage at the sight of the marks the manacles had left. Had this man not suffered enough? Had he not deserved the dignity of–

He tried to breathe deeply. He could hear the voices of the men who had returned Valjean here, mocking, jeering, but he was too focused on Valjean to pay attention to their words. And what did it matter, he thought with disgust. Ruffians Claquesous paid for their brawn. They held no power here. It was Claquesous who mattered. Claquesous whom he would make pay for every bruise, for every sound of pain.

The steps of the men grew softer in the distance before he could encourage Valjean to stretch out on the pallet of straw. This time, he did not even hesitate as he set out to work, clearing away blood and dirt with the gentlest of touches.

Valjean did not make a sound, and Javert did not dare talk. Valjean seemed visibly at the end of his strength. With horror Javert remembered once more how Valjean had looked at him before they had taken him, as though it had truly not mattered to him at all that he was here – as though something had returned him to that terrible mindset Javert had seen in Toulon. 

Sometimes, men turned into raging beasts. Sometimes, they turned into empty husks, labor and pain and captivity eroding away what little soul they had possessed until they walked among others like ghosts, eyes empty, waiting for the moment they would be freed from their shackles.

It was never the end of their sentence that finally saw their chain cut. It was always death. 

Javert pressed the wet cloth very carefully to another cut at Valjean's jaw. Valjean remained silent, but when Javert gently wiped downwards, following the line of his throat to clean away sweat and dust once more, Valjean exhaled a deep, tired breath, and his eyes came to rest on Javert.

They were not empty. Javert had to fight back a small sound of relief. He must have been mistaken earlier. Valjean was exhausted to the bone, so weary that any other man would have fainted and slept for a day or two – but his eyes, although dark and dazed with pain, were filled with emotion. Javert could not quite place it, but what mattered was that Valjean was still here with him.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly began to push up Valjean's shirt. Valjean tensed beneath his careful hands, but he did not protest, and Javert, who thought that this went far beyond propriety, could not stop when he uncovered the first bruise blooming on pale skin that stretched far too tightly over the still strong body.

He washed Valjean's chest with slow, gentle motions. This was something he had dreamed about during those shameful nights when he was hard between his legs, rubbing quickly, guiltily as he thought about pressing his lips to Valjean's hair again, to his mouth, to his stomach...

Reality was different now, and again he felt sickened by his selfish need.

A gentle touch against his arm made him look up. Valjean's fingers brushed against him. Valjean was watching him, still in pain, still looking too exhausted to stand – but behind the pain he now saw the iron will to live and to do what had to be done, because there was no other to carry his burdens for him. This was the conviction that had met Javert when he had stood over a man who had come out of the sewers carrying a corpse. This was what he had found himself faced with when pulling the man up and staring into his eyes while the man remained inert: that terrible, unbearable nobility of one who knew himself at the end of his strength, at the mercy of another, and yet with a task before him that could not be left undone, even if it meant that he would have to sacrifice his own life.

It was reassuring to see, even amidst the maelstrom of emotion that filled Javert's chest. Once more a storm swelled within his heart, and he remembered the cries of gulls and the crashing of white-crested waves while he touched gentle fingers to Valjean's bruised skin. He prayed that the storm within him did not show. It disgusted him that even now, even here, when Valjean was hurt and in danger, his own heart would beat faster at an innocent touch.

Had he not told himself that he could not possibly ask for a greater blessing than to have Valjean's friendship?

Abashed, he forced his eyes away from where his hands drew the damp cloth over a chest covered by soft, white hair. It seemed wrong to dab gently at a bruise and yet shiver from the way the coarse hair grazed his fingertips.

Unbidden, an image of resting his hand on Valjean's chest sprang up in his mind. He ground his jaw, but the thought did not leave. Would it be soft? Would it feel like resting his hand on a carpet of moss, or trailing his fingers over cut grass?

Would it feel rough and soft at once like the hair that grew between his own legs–

He clenched his fingers around the cloth, his cheeks hot as disgust coursed through him. Valjean still watched him with eyes that were dark with a deep weariness, but also strangely alert. Did Valjean wonder what he was thinking? Did he wonder why Javert would touch him so?

Did he fear that Javert might–

Enough, he told himself, and put the cloth away with a sigh. He had not done much good. He yearned helplessly for salves and the hands of a doctor for Valjean – but he had wiped away the sweat and the dust and the dirt. Perhaps Valjean would rest easier for it.

Valjean reached out with trembling hands and pulled the shirt down again. "Thank you, Javert," he said. Javert wanted to shake his head, because there was nothing to thank him for. Instead, he took hold of his coat again and spread it carefully over Valjean.

"You should sleep, if you can. It is better than being awake and in pain."

Valjean shook his head. "He will be back. The pain does not matter. Listen, Javert. I do not know what he intends for you, but you must try to escape."

Javert felt his lips twist into a smile at the suggestion. For one short moment, he reached out and rested his hand on where Valjean's arm was hidden beneath his coat. He did not dare to linger; the touch was fleeting, and yet it warmed something in him. Was this how friends touched? 

"I do not see how. It does not matter. He wants you, you say, or he wants what you know. That means we need to find a way out together. Or give him what he wants." 

"What he wants– no, Javert. I cannot."

Javert drew back a little, trying to make out more of Valjean's expression in the dim lamplight. His brows drew together. "You are in his power – I assure you, nothing that you own is as precious as your life. Does he want money? Tell him you will give it. We will find a way..."

Valjean had turned his head away, Javert realized, breaking off. Had he been mistaken? Had they hurt him so much that he had truly given up on himself, like those men sentenced to life he had known in his youth?

After a moment, he became aware that Valjean was breathing slowly and deeply, as though it took a conscious effort. Was Valjean trying to hold back tears? Was it rage?

Puzzled, Javert sat back. What had he said that could have such an effect on Valjean?

"Javert, you do not understand," Valjean said after a moment. He sounded weary still, but also strangely resigned. It woke a strange heat in Javert's heart. Not quite rage, no. How could he ever be angry with Valjean again? But it was true what Valjean said, he could not understand him.

"I have never understood you," he said at last, and then fell silent too as the words shivered through him with a profundity he only now realized. He laughed soundlessly. "There, it is true! I never did. I followed you to that garden, and I saw you weep, and I did not understand. I saw you with your daughter. You were loved. You were happy. You had all the things I had come to realize you deserved, and I also came to realize my own fault in trying to keep you from these things for so long."

"Javert–"

"No," Javert said. Valjean had tried to raise himself a little, but Javert could see him pale in what light they had, his lips pressed tightly together to hide the pain he felt. After a moment, tense and unhappy, Valjean settled back into the straw.

"I do not understand you. You deserve to live in happiness, far away from men such as these. If he wants money, give it, promise it – you must see that your daughter would rather have you than a carriage or ten new gowns. If he wants secrets – well then. Tell me. I am still of the police; let this be of use for the first and only time in my life. Let me help you, Valjean."

Valjean exhaled slowly, and then covered his face with a hand. Javert half feared that his shoulders would start to shake again, and he would be faced with the man's tears that wounded so deeply because he knew not how to stem them, nor whether he even had the right – but Valjean remained silent and motionless for a long moment.

“The man–”

“Claquesous,” Javert said, and Valjean nodded. Again Javert wondered whether they had met before, that day long ago in the Gorbeau hovel. 

“Claquesous. He wants the house in the Rue Plumet.”

“Because of the secret corridor?”

Valjean nodded slowly, as though even the act of holding his head upright took more strength than he had left. “It is rented in Cosette's name; yet I signed the papers, and there is some trouble with the owners–”

“The son is dead.” Javert frowned – would not Claquesous go after the mother next? He doubted that Martin would have the sense to leave men watching her home. 

“Well, I told you about that already. That is what brought me to talk to your daughter.”

Valjean made a small, pained sound. “Cosette – she has to be protected. You understand that, certainly? My secret could not be shared. I thought I could – but, Javert, you see what they have done down here.”

“The quarries don't belong to them,” Javert said slowly as he thought once more of the gardens they had dragged him past. “The quarries and caves and corridors; the mushrooms. They came and took over. Patron-Minette in the mushroom trade, ha!”

Valjean did not smile at his exclamation. “They think there is a tunnel that leads to the garden. That is what he asked me. He believes there is an entrance.”

“It is close to the Marché Saint-Germain,” Javert said. Yes – there had been carts going towards the market when he had trailed Valjean, and the quarter was quiet. And then, there was the secret corridor. Had Claquesous planned to use the house in the Rue Plumet as his new lair?

“Mushrooms! Ha. And Henry had all those murders to deal with as well at the markets. Given how it happened with you, I would not be surprised if others with convenient gardens had suddenly died, and the heirs found eager buyers for the land.”

“You say Patron-Minette, Javert, but–”

“No,” Javert said, and then shook his head after a moment’s consideration. “No, it is beyond them. How strange. How strange indeed. I have underestimated Claquesous.” 

He made a grimace of distaste, something within him reluctant even now to speak the words and condemn those sworn to uphold the law. “He is an agent of the police. A spy. He slipped through my fingers before. He taunts me with the secrets of my superiors. In truth, Valjean, I do not know if I will be of much use to you as Inspector Javert. Who knows how much longer I will hold that position. It is not important now; I am here, and I will do what I can to help you escape.”

Valjean's head turned towards the iron bars, and his eyes seemed to fill with a strange gleam. But when he turned again to face Javert, his gaze was clear, and weariness was etched in stark lines around his mouth.

"You cannot help me. You cannot. What he wants would harm Cosette. So you see– so you see how it is. What he wants to know must die with me."

Javert's mouth opened. He tried to speak, but found he could not. Instead he gaped, his head shaking slightly from side to side as if he wanted to deny to himself the truth of what he had just heard. At last, he leaned over Valjean. He fisted his hands into his shirt, so close now that he knew his breath brushed hot and threatening across Valjean's face from the way the man stared up at him as though paralyzed by fear. He had held him in his grasp like this a year ago. Well then! he thought almost hysterically. Well then. If he could not talk sense into him, maybe he could shake sense into him?

"You, you, you..." He ground his teeth, his heart aching in his chest as though Valjean had reached into him and wrapped his hand around it to squeeze with a cruelty he had not known this man possessed.

"Fool. You–" He could not force out further words. The light flickered, orange-red at the edges of his vision, Valjean's face beneath him as pale as a ghost. As a corpse.

He groaned with pain and thrust his hand into his whiskers, pulled the coarse hair until the sharp ache distracted him from the heart that shuddered without rhythm in his chest.

"No," he said at last, his voice rough. Again he leaned forward. Again he took hold of Valjean's shirt almost violently. "Do you hear me? You will not die here. How dare you... Do not say these things. Never again. You will live. If God sent you to save me, then certainly for this."

Now he could save Valjean in turn, he thought, staring down into the eyes beneath him. They were wide with shock, and yet still strangely distant. Had Valjean truly surrendered himself to death?

"No. No!" he said again, and then laughed, the sound soft and terrible, thinking of how he had ached to fling himself onto Valjean in that carriage, to see him arrested and in irons. And now he was so close. So close. 

Their lips were nearly touching. He thought of his frightened gasps brushing across Valjean's lips, Valjean breathing in his own breath; thought of leaning down and taking that kiss – and what did it matter that he had no knowledge of how to do such things. His heart ached so much that he thought he must act now or feel it burst in his breast.

"Javert." Valjean's voice was very quiet. Javert felt the touch of a hand against his cheek. Fingertips trembled against his skin, and there was a moan trapped in his throat, thick with a desire that had sprung up somewhere between his legs, throbbing through him with the relentless beating of a drum.

It was impossible to move. He had pulled Valjean so close that he could feel his warmth where their chests were pressed together. Valjean's fingertips remained in place. The touch was so unbearably light and gentle that Javert felt the shame of his own need burn through him until he thought that he would have to admit to it or die choking on this ball of terrible lust lodged within him.

He tilted his head. His eyes fell shut, and he turned his face and leaned into the caress, Valjean's fingers trembling against his cheek, the hound returned home at last.

His breath ghosted across Valjean's wrist. He ached to lean forward and press a kiss to it, to taste beneath his starved mouth the flutter of pulsing blood and warm skin. He could not. 

He could not move. He could not speak. The moment stretched endlessly. All that existed was the roar of blood in his ears and the warmth of his breath against Valjean's skin.

He could not say how much time passed. Here in the dim light of their small cell, every heartbeat resounded within his chest like the sounding of a church bell, and with only the meter of his breath against Valjean's wrist to count the fleeing seconds, it felt as if the moment stretched out into eternity. The world was swallowed by the darkness and the weight of the earth that surrounded them, and all that remained real was the warmth of Valjean's touch and the need for more.

To take a kiss – would that be so wrong? Valjean's fingers touched him with gentleness, and it was nearly unbearable. He imagined it: it would take very little effort. All he had to do was to turn his head, and those fingers would touch his lips instead. He could teach his mouth to be gentle and kiss the hand that had saved him from the abyss, raising him out of the shards of his shattered thoughts...

"Javert," Valjean said again, and in the flickering darkness between them, Javert allowed himself to believe that the tremor he heard in his voice was breathlessness and not pain, and that Valjean too spoke his name as a prayer, because he knew no other words for the emotion that expanded in his heart until it terrified him. Was this love, this vast thing that was not gentle but relentless? It seemed to him that it must swallow all of him until nothing was left but this knot of aching fire and unbearable tenderness that had grown in his chest, a frightening, alien thing that would burst out of him and leave behind the withered husk of who he had been.

It scared him. He could not imagine such a thing, for as much as he had yearned to leave behind all that had made him terrible, for a moment he could see nothing of himself in the vision of what could be. For all that he had tried to take his old life, it was nevertheless more terrifying still to be faced with the death and the rebirth of his soul here in the dark cave that held them enclosed as if in a womb, with the breath and the heartbeat of Valjean rooting him in love and longing.

Then, he had flung himself off the parapet in an act of defiance, a resignation handed in to God.

Now, to do this final step would be a deliberate act born not from spite or despair, but from–

Hope, he thought, breathing calmly, feeling Valjean's heart beat in answer against his own chest. Hope that perhaps he might be loved in return. Hope that perhaps he would receive forgiveness instead, and friendship.

He did not fling himself into love. It was no grand act: it did not even take that one step from the parapet. All it took was to breathe in deeply as he released Valjean’s shirt to grasp his hand that had slipped from his cheek, holding it gently between his own as he pressed a kiss to it, the gentlest brush of his lips against dusty, bruised knuckles.

"Jean Valjean," he said very softly. "You will not die here. You are not alone. I am your friend, here and forever. I ask nothing in return but that you trust me. You will live, and we will find a way out.” 

Valjean's hand lingered in his grasp. Valjean's face was bathed in shadow. Javert breathed calmly, the love within him expanding until he felt that he could ask for no greater blessing than to be allowed to sit here by Valjean's side and watch over him, the loyal guard dog returned to his master's side at last.

Then Valjean's hand slipped from his grasp and instead gripped his wrist, and when Valjean moved, Javert saw that the weary softness had passed from his eyes. What looked at him instead was once more the iron he had known hidden within the core of Valjean all this time: the iron that had not allowed him to bend during two sentences in the galleys, that had made him escape through the sea, and the sewers, and rescue others as though the weak mortality of his own flesh was a limitation Valjean himself was not aware of.

“Javert,” Valjean said at last, his hand still firm around Javert's arm. “If you wanted to be my friend – why did you leave?”


	11. The Confession of Javert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean suffers. Javert watches and suffers. Claquesous is still no closer to his goal.

Valjean was asleep. His body was a reassuring mass of warmth resting next to Javert under the thin cover of his coat. Javert, too, was tired – but he was unable to surrender himself to sleep, both because he feared to close his eyes when someone might choose that moment to come and hurt Valjean again, and also because he could not stop himself from repeating Valjean's question over and over in his mind.

He had remained silent until Valjean had wearily turned away, perhaps taking the lack of an answer for an admission that Javert had lied, that Javert did not know what friendship was. The thought ached almost as much as the hard stone beneath his hip, but to think of the only alternative – to think of speaking the truth!

Javert shivered and squeezed his eyes shut, muttering "No, no, no," there in the gloom of their cave until he clenched his teeth to stop the sound. Valjean would not want his friendship if he knew. To imagine Valjean aware of how he had spilled himself with such hot, shameful relief in Valjean's own bed...

He clasped a hand over his mouth to hold back the mortified sound that erupted at the memory. And yet. Would it not be better to admit his sin? He was not asking for absolution from Valjean. But should not Valjean know before he believed Javert's promises of friendship?

Valjean's breath came slowly and regularly. The lamp was flickering out. Darkness descended.

Javert lay awake in the darkness for a long time, feeling the warmth of Valjean seep into him. When he slept at last, it was the deep sleep of exhaustion. For once, he did not dream.

They woke from the sound of steps coming closer. There was the shifting light of lamps slowly brightening the corridor that led to their cell – and then, there were the men again. Javert saw with relief that it was not Claquesous who had come, although he could just barely keep from muttering insults as Valjean grew stiff and alert, sitting up straight. Where before, Javert had thought to see a lion in repose, exhaustion forcing him to trust Javert to guard his sleep, now Valjean had shifted with quiet determination, gaining a threatening physicality as muscles and sinews tensed. Somehow, without moving, he had nevertheless contrived to shield Javert by drawing all eyes and attention to him.

This was the lion guardant, and Javert looked at the majesty of that strong neck and the broad shoulders, and thought of the pain Valjean had already born and was now voicelessly offering himself up to again. For that was what Valjean was doing. Perhaps it was not even conscious – but Valjean had instinctively tried to draw attention and thus danger from Javert, and Javert, helpless, could do nothing to prevent it from happening.

The men gave them no time to talk. There were five of them this time, and they soon saw why: it was not just Valjean who was taken from the cell. Javert clenched his jaw when they bound his hands behind his back, yet had no choice but to let it happen; the hemp bit at the tender skin of his wrists, but he barely registered the discomfort as he strained his neck to keep Valjean in sight.

Him, they bound in chains again. Javert bared his teeth at the sight of iron around those wrists that had been chained up for too long already. All it gained him was an unfriendly blow, and then a pistol prodding his back again, until, quietly seething, he followed.

As he had feared, they were taken once more to the cave where Claquesous was already awaiting them. Lamps lit the room, and when Claquesous looked up from his books, the light reflected off the mask he still wore. Javert could not hold back a sound of derision.

"How good of you to join me again," Claquesous said, ignoring Javert for the moment as he gestured towards the wall. The men who held Valjean in their power moved, and instinct made, Javert follow before he was held back. Silently, he snarled as he watched Valjean being fastened to the wall once more by sturdy chains.

A part of him hoped even now that Valjean would rebel against the iron bands – would find a way to burst free of those chains. Had not Javert himself seen him commit acts of near impossible strength? Would not that strength return, now that his own life was in danger?

Valjean allowed them to chain him, his head bent, weary once more, and Javert shivered inwardly when he remembered the bent backs of so many men he had once watched over. They had no names anymore in his memories; had Valjean been among them, he, too, would not have had a name. And yet Javert could barely keep from flinging himself forward to force Claquesous to release Valjean, for the sight of him so bent and submissive was abhorrent in a way Javert could not quite explain even to himself. He would give up his position – his life, even – if it meant that he could buy Valjean's freedom with it – but that was not the price Claquesous desired, and Javert was as helpless as Valjean.

"I thought it was time we talked again," Claquesous said, his back still towards Javert, who seethed when he was forced to watch Claquesous reach out and grasp Valjean's chin to raise his head.

"You've had some rest. You've had time to think as well. Remember where you are, Jean Valjean, and remember who I am. I will pay you a fine sum of money for the house, too, if I must – but first, you will have to tell me its secrets."

"I do not know them," Valjean said with the sublime calmness of the martyr, and Javert felt his insides clench with cold fear when Claquesous backhanded him.

"Wrong. We can talk for a while, if that is what you want, but you will tell me. I ask again: where is the secret entrance?"

"I do not know," Valjean said again, and Javert watched in horror as a drop of blood ran down his chin. Valjean was silent, his face pale; he did not tremble or flinch as he looked at Claquesous, and Javert wanted to weep, and to beg him to have the sense to be afraid. 

"You chose that house for a reason. An old convict like you – you even escaped from Javert's clutches when we had you tied to that bed in the Gorbeau house."

Javert stiffened to have his suspicion so suddenly confirmed, and Valjean's pained eyes met his for a heartbeat only to shy away. 

"Yes, always prepared for escape. A rich old cove, Jondrette said, who spilled coin into open palms wherever he went. Well, keep your money. All I want is the house."

"You can have the house," Valjean said, and Javert watched as his tongue touched the small cut from which more blood was flowing. "It is not mine. It was rented; you should–"

"No, no. We've had that conversation before." Claquesous turned from him impatiently, and Javert breathed deeply, rage flaring up in his chest again as Claquesous' eyes met his. The man gave him a long look from behind his mask, and then moved on towards his desk. 

"Well, I suppose the inspector missed out on that conversation. How well acquainted are you really? I doubt that Javert is in your pocket. Not even Gisquet thought it worthwhile to use him. Was the inspector observing you? Is that why you chose that house with your secret little rat hole, to scurry away from the police?"

"Yes," Valjean said, just when Javert said "No," and Claquesous laughed.

"How entertaining. But I am not here to be entertained. I know men like you, Valjean. Always giving, giving, giving: the old philanthropist from the church of Saint-Jacques, they call you. These things happen for a reason. What crimes did you seek to cover up, I wonder? Why rent that house, why hide away from all eyes, why use a secret door at all times? You chose that house because you knew something. I ask again: where is the secret entrance?"

This time, when Claquesous turned away from the desk to face Valjean, there was something dark and heavy in his hand – a whip, Javert realized. He made a sound of shocked anguish. 

Valjean shuddered as he looked at it. Then he raised his head and looked Claquesous in the eye, breathing deeply as he relaxed into his chains.

"I do not know."

Javert ground his teeth, contemplating once more his chances – could he tear free? Could he throw himself onto Claquesous, by some chance knock him out despite his bound arms? But the men who held him tightened their grip, and the pistol was pressed to his brow even as he snarled and gave the men next to him a wild look of hatred. Then he, too, found himself pushed to the wall, hard enough that the impact would leave bruises, and they fastened shackles around his wrists while he writhed in their grasp.

"There. You have an audience this time, Valjean. And perhaps Javert knows more than he thinks?”

Valjean was turned and chained in place once more, facing the wall. Javert pulled at his own shackles until the skin of his wrists was rubbed raw, but they did not give. The men paid him no attention – and why should they? Another sound of anguish escaped him as they tore Valjean's shirt from his back. Why should they? He was helpless, after all. There was nothing he could do. 

_Do not let this happen,_ he thought in horror – perhaps it was a prayer, but if so, no one heard it. Claquesous prodded at Valjean's back with the lash, and Javert had to swallow his helpless rage and disgust at seeing Valjean's scars bared to a man who could look at them and laugh.

"Valjean," Javert said brokenly as he once more pulled at the chains that held him in place. Valjean turned his head and gave him a look of quiet resignation.

"Don't, Javert," he said, and then Claquesous stepped back and raised the whip, and Javert was forced to watch as Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, leaning against the hard wall as if to ask it for strength. He made no sound save for a soft, breathless gasp when the whip came down across his back for the first time.

"Coward!" Javert threw himself forward in rage, but the chains still held. "Coward! You will rue this!"

Claquesous looked at him and tilted his head while Javert bared his teeth once more in the impotent grimace of the caged tiger.

"All bark and no bite, Javert. What will you do? I could cut your throat right now, for no other reason than that I would enjoy it to bleed you like a pig."

"No!" A shudder ran through Valjean, and he shifted, turning his head with obvious effort. "Leave him alone. I do not even know him. It is me you wanted."

"Another lie." 

Again the whip came down, and again Javert cried out in helpless fury as he watched Valjean arch against the wall, that strong body tensing with pain.

"You will rue this!" Javert threatened, nearly out of his mind. "You will–"

Claquesous backhanded him with the grip of the whip, hard enough to snap Javert's head around. Pain bloomed hot across his face, and he had to blink dazedly, tasting blood in his mouth.

When his vision cleared, he saw Valjean struggling against the chains at last – but before he could free himself, the whip came down again, and again, forcing choked moans of pain from Valjean. There was blood on his back now, red stripes and raised welts and droplets of blood running down where the whip had bitten deeper.

Javert panted and threw himself against the chains at the sight. Another blow, and another sound of pain from Valjean: a small, low sound, the terrified noise of a hunted animal, and then the terrible sound of the whip hitting flesh again. Javert could feel the weight of the whip in his own hand. What did it matter now that he could no longer remember the faces of those he had lashed? Valjean was chained so close, and he could hear the pained sounds he made, the breaths he choked on; could see the sweat gleaming on his face, the deep lines of pain, the grimace when the whip came down.

The room smelled of blood and sweat and fear. The stone was cold against Javert's back, unyielding like the chains that would not release him no matter how much he pulled at them. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and the ragged gasps made by Valjean. 

Valjean's eyes were shut; his face was pressed to the wall. Sweat gleamed on his brow, strands of hair stuck to his skin, and yet, somehow, even as Valjean strained and tensed with every new blow, there was a deep calmness on his face. A man surrendered to his fate, Javert thought again, desperately swallowing against the scream that wanted to break free from his throat.

Could Claquesous not see what he was doing? What Valjean had told him was true. Not only had he surrendered to his fate – he expected it. Valjean would step into the embrace of death with his arms open in welcome, even if it meant that he would have to walk this path of pain first – all for protecting his daughter by keeping whatever secrets he knew.

Another helpless groan escaped Valjean when the whip cut a new trail of red over his back. Drops of blood were slowly trickling down his skin, and Valjean was breathing shallowly as he leaned against the unyielding wall.

"Stop it!" Javert finally snarled, "stop it, can you not see what you are doing? Good God, the man knows nothing! Look at him! I know him well: he's an old convict, he had a small sum of money hidden away, but that is all!"

Claquesous paused for a moment. Again Javert tensed, filled by a helpless rage that had no outlet. The shackles were tight around his wrists; he would not be able to slip out of them. Perhaps, if he could entice Claquesous to come close enough, he could reach his throat with his fingers...

"Why so concerned, Javert?" Claquesous did indeed lower the whip for a moment and took a step towards Javert, but he stopped well out of reach. Javert swallowed a hiss of frustration.

"He is a convict. Why do you care whether he lives or dies? How do you know that he had money hidden away? With any other man, I'd suspect you took your share of the money to keep his secret – but not you, Javert. Not you."

Javert forced himself to grin broadly, panting again as anger flooded his veins. "You think so? If you know me so well, if you know Gisquet's plans so well, why do you think I was gone for half a year? I caught that man, and I let him go for a nice sum of money. That's what happened. I know him well. I can tell you where the rest of the money is. But you have to let him go. He knows nothing of caves or secret tunnels."

Claquesous breathed deeply, and then he began to laugh. "What an interesting puzzle this is. You mean nothing to me, Javert, but I have to admit, I'm curious now. Why would _Javert_ lie for a con?”

Javert bared his teeth again. "If you know me at all, you know that I have never lied!" 

"True." Claquesous reached out and forced up Javert's chin with the handle of the lash. Again Javert snarled and pulled at the chains that did not give. The leather was slick against his skin, and he felt disgust swell in his chest at the realization that this had to be Valjean's sweat and blood.

"And that is why I'm intrigued to find you lying now."

"Claquesous. Please, he means nothing," Valjean said. His voice was rough with pain, but even so, he continued: "He knows nothing about the house. Just another _roussin_ who tried to nab me. Come, I will tell you all you want to know about the house."

"The secret passages?" Claquesous had tensed, but his grip on the lash was still firm, and Javert had trouble swallowing from the way it pressed against his throat.

"There is but one! Just the entrance in the Rue du Babylone. You already have my key; you know where the door is. I will show you that entrance myself if I need to, but there is nothing else I know! That is all I was told when I rented it; just that passage between the Rue du Babylone and the Rue Plumet."

"No," Claquesous said and lowered the lash at last. Javert took a deep, relieved breath. "Not good enough. But I have time. I can make you talk."

Valjean closed his eyes again, relaxing against the wall, his mouth losing some of its tension. Was that relief, Javert wondered in disbelief – could that be relief, when Claquesous had just threatened worse pain?

Before Claquesous could focus his attention on Valjean once more, Javert threw himself against the chains again, but it was too no avail. The iron did not give; the shackles rubbed his wrists to painful rawness, and, still seething with anger and that terrible, overwhelming fear, he spit at Claquesous.

Retaliation was swift: a blow with the handle of the lash that sent Javert's head spinning once more, his mouth filling with the iron tang of blood. A groan escaped him, and he blinked dizzily even as Claquesous' hand closed around his throat.

"Do _not_ try my patience," Claquesous warned, and his hand tightened until Javert gasped for breath. "Do not play with me, Javert. You're an interesting puzzle – but I'd as soon cut your throat and toss you into the river."

Javert, whose body was still laboring for air that would not come, thought that he heard a cry, a distant plea... Was that Valjean? 

Foolish man, he thought, even as his vision threatened to go dark. Foolish man. Why would he not take what little distraction Javert could offer...

Then Claquesous' hand released him, and he slumped in his chains, wheezing for air. Long, precious moments were lost to the relief of being able to fill his lungs once more. When he managed to raise his still-reeling head at last, he saw Valjean watching him with fear in his eyes. 

Javert wanted to plead again. Could Valjean not see that his safety was the only thing that mattered? But Javert could not speak, could only beg with his eyes, and then Claquesous stepped between them, and Valjean tensed and turned his face back towards the wall .

"Do your worst. I told you, I know nothing more of the house," Valjean said wearily, his voice full of the terrible surrender that made Javert's heart ache in protest.

"No," Claquesous said. "No, I don't believe that. And I am beginning to wonder why you want to protect him."

Javert's chest was heaving as he struggled to breathe. Claquesous' mask gleamed in the light of the lamps. Sweat and blood glistened on Valjean's back, and Javert bit his lip, tasting more blood as Claquesous prodded Valjean with the whip.

"You are both lying. No matter. Gisquet would probably thank me if I took care of Javert for him. But I wonder now. He was gone for a long time, that is true. And as soon as he returns, he meddles with things that should not concern him. No. I don't think Gisquet knows what Javert has been up to. Whatever it is, it involves you, a con with money and a house with a secret passage – and a history with Jondrette."

Javert clenched his jaw until it hurt. Again he prayed that Valjean would give the man whatever information he wanted. No price was too high to see Valjean safe for one more night!

But all Valjean said was, "I do not know what you want," and then the lash was raised again, and Javert was forced to watch as Valjean flinched with every impact of the leather, new welts springing up, new lines of blood raised where the whip bit too deep. The sounds Valjean made drove into his head like sharp nails. These were not the cries of pain and the pleas he remembered from the galleys. These were worse. It was obvious that Valjean was trying to hold back, and Javert could not understand why. Did he _want_ the man to whip him to death?

Yes, he then thought, watching as tears dripped down Valjean's cheeks. Still Valjean did not plead. The only sound was that of his pained breathing, and the softest whimpers when the leather came down onto his back. Yes. That was what Valjean wanted.

A chill took him at the realization, a feeling like great bands of iron squeezing around his chest, relentless like the chains that held him, until he thought that he would suffocate. Why would Valjean want such a thing? How could this man who had always refused to surrender now submit to such a terrible fate? Valjean was very pale now, his strong body tense and trembling, slick with sweat. Javert thought of having to watch as the man he had come to love was beaten to death like an old horse, and a sound of deep anguish escaped from between his clenched teeth.

"Valjean," he said, and although the name came out as little more than a groan, Valjean's eyelashes fluttered and then lifted. Valjean looked at him. Lines of pain and exhaustion were graven into his face, and his eyes were distant and still filled by that strange calm. Javert remembered that look from when Valjean had gazed at the garden. Was that what Valjean had done then? Had he said farewell, to be prepared for this?

No. No, Javert thought, suddenly desperate – not like this! Not before Javert had received another chance to touch him, to promise Valjean his friendship, to lay love and loyalty at his feet: a paltry gift but all he had to give...

Valjean's lips parted, and Javert watched as his throat worked, aching for a promise that Valjean wanted to live, that they would both survive this. But then the lash fell again, and a deep groan escaped Valjean's throat as he slumped against the wall, held up only by the chains now.

Claquesous made a sound of displeasure, then put the whip away. Instead, he grasped Valjean's head by his hair and roughly pulled it back. Valjean's eyes were closed. His face was wet with tears, and Javert shook with helpless rage to see Claquesous touch this man who was so precious to him, whom he had once hoped to save from all hurt.

"For God's sake, Claquesous, leave the man alone," he said at last. His throat was parched. He could barely speak.

"Look at him. You'll kill him, and what good will that do you?"

Claquesous released Valjean's head. Javert shuddered to see it roll back against the wall. Tears were still seeping from beneath Valjean's closed eyelids; Javert could see the pumping of his chest, and the flutter of his pulse at his throat.

"And what is that to you, Javert." Claquesous came forward to study Javert once more. Javert did not answer, although he met Claquesous' eyes in defiance. His hands clenched into fists, aching to either lash out or to touch Valjean, but both were denied him.

"Take them both back," Claquesous said. "Maybe I need to listen around for what you've been up to, Javert. We'll see if Gisquet knows more of your little secrets. Don't worry – you're not going to return anyway. It shouldn't matter to you whether he knows that you're in the pocket of an ex-convict."

#

They had to throw a pail of water into Valjean's face to wake him for the slow, dizzy lurch back towards their cell. Javert flinched every time Valjean stumbled. At last, they allowed him to support Valjean when it became clear he could no longer walk on his own. Javert had to swallow back tears when Valjean leaned on him,, half-unconscious still from the pain, his skin clammy with sweat. From the corner of his eye, Javert watched the small openings that might lead to other tunnels and caves and mushroom fields – or even to a path to the outside, he thought when he felt what might have been a draft of fresh air once. But Valjean could barely walk even with his support, and the men had pistols cocked at them.

How many chances like this would they have? He tightened his hold around Valjean's waist, ignoring the protest of his own ribs at the weight of him.

No, there would probably not be many chances – but even so. They could not escape like this. Not without a plan. 

Now that he knew that these men would let him support Valjean rather than having to drag his heavy body back themselves, perhaps Valjean could pretend unconsciousness again the next time...

The next time, he thought bitterly as they were locked into their cell once more. There would be a next time; he did not doubt it. 

After helping Valjean lie down on the straw, he distracted himself with pulling up fresh water from the small well. At least they had water. He wondered if they would be fed, or if Claquesous intended to starve them. He would not put it past him. Best to act soon then, before they grew too weak.

Valjean was awake when he returned to his side, watching quietly when Javert took off his own shirt and dipped it into the water.

"You don't have to," Valjean said, his voice cracking.

"Have to? Valjean–" Javert shook his head. Valjean's back was a mess of red welts and dried blood. 

"I am not doing this because I have to," he said quietly, and then set to work. "There's not much I can do anyway. I will help you wash, and then you can rest."

Valjean breathed slowly and turned his head with obvious effort. Javert hesitated, looking at his hands there against Valjean's scarred, bleeding back. 

"If you do not mind, that is," he said at last. Valjean exhaled, his brow creasing a little as though he was trying to understand Javert's words.

"I do not mind."

Javert nodded a little and set to work. Valjean flinched a few times when he came too close to a wound, but stayed silent through all of it, and Javert did not know how to break that silence. It was too unsettling to watch his hands move across that broad, bloodied back. How could he once have looked at wounds like these without feeling an anguish that threatened to choke him?

Valjean was breathing quietly beneath him. The lamp outside the cell flickered, but it still burned strong. There was enough light for Javert to make out not only the lashmarks and the blood, but also the new lines pain had etched onto Valjean's face. Javert remembered how often Valjean had remained by his side when he had been resting in his bed. Had Valjean too felt this overwhelming need to soothe and heal with his touch?

Impossible that Valjean should have felt such a thing for him, he thought. Then he remembered again the sensation of Valjean's cool fingers against his feverish brow.

"We must escape," he said softly when he had cleaned away most of the sweat and the blood. He spread out his shirt to allow it to dry, then sat down by Valjean's side, for there was nothing else to do.

Valjean was not yet asleep as he had thought, but looked up at him with calm, hopeless eyes.

“We must escape,” Javert said again, allowing his eyes to linger at the marks of pain around Valjean's eyes. "You must escape. Please, Valjean. Promise me you will try."

Valjean looked at him and sighed, then closed his eyes.

The rejection stung, even though Javert told himself that Valjean had been beaten nearly unconscious. And yet – had not Valjean spoken of death even before that had happened?

"Valjean," he said more urgently. "Valjean, promise me!"

"I cannot promise anything anymore," Valjean said at last. His face was in the shadow now, and Javert could not make out his expression, but his voice was weary beyond belief. 

"Already he asks too many questions. I don't know anything about secret passages. It's true what I told him: I chose it for that secret door to the Rue du Babylone, so you would not find me. Or so I could flee quickly, should you find me. That is all. Cosette lives with her husband now. She knows nothing of houses and secrets. Let Claquesous buy that house, let him kill me for it. It's a price I'm willing to pay."

Javert clenched his teeth, his hands curling into fists once more at the helpless rage that filled him – rage not only at Claquesous, but also, for one moment, at Valjean, for giving up when he had never done so before. 

"It will not happen," Javert said curtly. "Valjean, what the devil is the matter with you? Do you save my life to throw away yours? You claimed my life, do you not remember? When I told you that I had no use for it? Well now! That is an obligation! Here my life is in danger; you cannot give up now, unless that is what you want. To see me dead – would that please you? It seems a fitting end, doesn't it? To see one who beat prisoners now beaten to death by a criminal, to–"

"Javert," Valjean said, his voice gentle and weary. "Please, Javert. You never answered my question. Why did you leave then, if that is how you feel?"

Javert stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded to have that thrown back at him at last. In the dim light, he stared down at Valjean. His chest was heaving, he realized after a long moment, his heart pumping frantically. Valjean held his gaze, and when Javert did not speak, he sighed softly, as though that was the response he had expected, and turned his head away once more. 

"Because," Javert found himself speaking at last, frightened all of a sudden that this was how it would end, with Valjean turning from him. His voice was hollow in his own ears, resounding like the terrible ringing of a great bell spelling his doom from the heavens. "Because I had come to love you, and I could not bear the shame."

"The shame..." Valjean repeated softly, as though the truth of what Javert had spoken had not yet registered.

Javert groaned, bending over to contain the deep, sudden ache in his heart where this secret had grown roots before it had been torn out of him.

"Come to... to love me? But what do you mean, Javert?" 

Javert could not place the emotion in Valjean's voice. Surprise, yes. Disbelief? Wariness? He could not say. He could not breathe, either; the ache within him had swelled into a hot knot of pain that filled the raw emptiness where once his secret had rested. Helplessly he clenched his hands into his trousers.

"I," he began, and stopped, the word thick in his throat. 

"I had to leave because – do you not see? Look at what a fool I'm making of myself." He covered his face with his hands. What a terrible display this was. Perhaps Valjean would believe that he had lost his senses here in the darkness. Perhaps that would be best.

“Because I thought of kissing you, Jean Valjean.” Javert trembled at the way the soft confession echoed between the walls of cold stone. “Do you now see? Do you understand why I could not stay?”

Valjean was very quiet. Javert imagined the look of surprise turning into disgust on his face. Javert could not make himself look at him, not when his cheeks were hot with mortification and his heart aching as though he had just driven a knife into it.

"The shame of feeling such a thing for a convict?" Valjean at last said, and Javert drew back as though Valjean had hit him instead. His hands dropped from his face, and he stared at Valjean with wide eyes, panting, his fingers clenching into his own thigh until they were sure to leave bruises.

"What? No! No, how could you– The shame of," he began, then made another sound of deep distress as he remembered how he had washed his semen from the sheets there in the night, with Valjean sleeping in the next room. 

"The shame of wanting such a thing from you, when you had already given me so much. You'd given me shelter, food, your own bed. And that was how I repaid you, with..." He choked. "With _filthy thoughts_ and– ah, good God, what am I doing?"

He turned from Valjean, thrust his hands into his hair and pulled in his despair until the pain distracted him. Behind him, he heard Valjean's labored breathing.

"What a ninny I am! Yes, look at me, Valjean, and is this not a good time to admit such a thing to you? Here you are in danger, and I have no worries but thoughts of _sin_ and–"

The words stuck in his throat. Viciously, he rubbed his hands over his face. "It is hopeless. I do not expect you to understand or forgive. I told you I do not ask for anything in return: that has not changed. You do not even have to see me again once this is over. But please believe me that I want to see you safe. That I need to. If you die here, I'll die with you."

Valjean did not speak. Javert listened to the pounding of his own heart. He had once thought that maybe it would be a relief to be free of this thing in his chest: to cut himself open and let Valjean sift through the offal. But this was not relief. If anything, the burden of it had grown heavier, constricting his chest once more until he felt crushed by the weight of tears that would not come.

He tried to breathe in. The sound that escaped was a sob, and he clasped his hand over his mouth, and began to laugh. It took long moments to realize that he was crying instead.

"Javert," Valjean spoke at last, and still Javert refused to turn and face him. "Javert. I do not know what to say."

"You need not say anything," Javert said with great weariness. What did it matter now that Valjean knew? If they were both to die here, it would make no difference at all. "Please. Just let me help you."

"I never thought...” Valjean hesitated for a moment. “When you left, I thought it was because you could not bear my presence anymore, now that you were well enough. I did not question it. I had never expected you to _want_ to become my friend, after all."

Javert made another sound that was half laugh, half sob. "And look what you have saved me for. What a mess this is. I am very sorry, Valjean."

"You..." Valjean stopped again. Javert could imagine the expression on his face: the disgust, the shake of his head. "I am sorry. I do not know what to say. You are overwhelmed."

“And now you make excuses for me.” Javert choked back another sound that was dangerously close to a sob, then rubbed away the shameful tears before he turned to face Valjean once more. 

“You are the one who is in pain. You are the one who has reason to be overwhelmed. There is no excuse in the world for me, for–” Javert hesitated. He could not quite make out what emotion there was in Valjean's eyes. It was not disgust, he thought with gratitude. Maybe pity. Pity he could stomach, if he had to. Better to be pitied, and still be allowed to use his body to guard Valjean.

“Nothing I have spoken makes a difference,” he said finally. “You must believe that. I would not harm you in any way. All I want is to see you safe and free.”

Valjean's mouth opened, but this time, he did not speak. And that was well. Javert should never have brought it up. Not like this. Not here.

“You're in pain. Please, try to sleep.”

“Javert...”

Javert made another pained sound. “Don't. Don't think of this now. As I said, it will make no difference, I promise you. You need to sleep now. And tomorrow, we will think about escape.”

Valjean's breathing was heavy in the gloom. Javert was suddenly glad that the flickering lamp-light made it hard to see his reaction. Perhaps tomorrow, they could both pretend that nothing had come to pass this night, and they would talk of how to overwhelm their guards, and never speak of this again. Or perhaps tomorrow, Valjean would shy away from his touch, and Javert would never again be allowed to offer what little comfort he could while tending to his wounds. That was also possible.

With longing Javert thought of the night when Valjean had slept, pained and exhausted, with his head resting trustingly in his lap. How sweet that had been, to be trusted enough to watch over his dreams, to be allowed to touch his hair and give comfort.

He took hold of his coat and spread it over Valjean. Then he settled against the wall, carefully out of reach so that Valjean could sleep without fear. Valjean's face was a mask of harsh lines in the lamp-light. Javert ached to reach out and brush away a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. Instead, he kept still as Valjean looked at him for a long moment, lost in thought, before his eyes fell shut. Javert waited until his breathing was deep and regular before he allowed himself to seek escape in dreams as well.


	12. Jean Valjean Prays for a Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Claquesous uncoils his whip once more and secrets are revealed at last.

The next morning was uncomfortable. Javert had woken often during the night, and at last, lying cold and aching in the dim light of the lamp, he became aware that he was watched. He met Valjean's eyes with weary embarrassment, for he still feared to find disdain there, but instead, a hand was hesitantly stretched out towards him. Javert stared at it for a long moment. But he was cold and exhausted, and his bones ached. Even his shame at the confession that had spilled out of him was not enough to resist that temptation.

He shifted over to rest by Valjean's side, barely able to believe that Valjean would still have him there. Then his coat was spread over him as well, and he exhaled in miserable gratitude at the comfort of resting on straw, sharing the warmth Valjean's body had generated. Javert closed his eyes, remaining silent and still, praying that Valjean would believe his earlier promise that he would never have anything to fear from Javert.

Valjean neither spoke nor touched him. After long, tense moments during which Javert could feel his heartbeat in his throat, he realized that Valjean had already fallen back to sleep. It took a while until Javert could relax enough to slip into sleep as well, but once he did, he did not wake again until Valjean stirred against him hours later.

"Have they fed you?" Javert asked, once they had used the wooden bucket to draw water from the well. Curiosity had made him throw a stone down, but the light of the lamp did not reach down far enough to show what was at the bottom. Well, it was no good anyway; these men would not lock up their prisoners in a cave with a tunnel that led outside.

"Yes. Before they brought you."

"And did you eat?" Javert scowled when Valjean did not meet his eyes. "Well, never mind! They want you to live, so they will bring more. You will eat it if I have to feed you myself. Then we will escape." 

Valjean turned from him with a deep sigh and looked down into the well. "I will not argue with you," he said, and Javert could read the tiredness in the lines of his bent shoulders. 

He could not help but keep staring. Valjean's back looked terrible. There were the long, red lines the whip had left, crossing back and forth, pain written on him in the language of his own sweat and blood. Javert felt rage well up within him at the sight.

"I will not argue, but I do not know how... I want you to live, Javert. But I am not as strong as I was. I am not prepared..."

"You've escaped my grasp before." Javert came to join him at the well, staring down into the darkness. He pushed another stone in with his boot. It hit the water after a few seconds, and he sighed.

"I tried to see what's down there. It's only water," Valjean said, as though he had read his thoughts.

"There are lots of tunnels in these old quarries."

Valjean managed something that sounded almost like a tired laugh in response. "And how do you know so much about quarries? But you are right. There might be tunnels opening where we least expect it. Perhaps when they take us out today. But not in here. Not down there."

Javert glared into the darkness, then turned away from it. "Well. I suppose it would be too much to hope they lock us into a cell with a tunnel that leads out."

"Quite," Valjean agreed with a careful smile, and at last Javert could not bear it anymore.

"Valjean." He forced himself to meet his eyes. "I – I do not know what to say. Yesterday..."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Valjean said. 

Javert looked at him. What was Valjean feeling now? Fear? Disgust? He could not make out either on his face. The gratitude that burst within him was so strong that he wanted to fall on his knees.

"That is not true, Valjean." Javert swallowed. His voice trembled a little. Now that whatever stone had been lodged in his chest for so long had been forced out, emotion seemed to boil up in its place when he least expected it. It was enough to hear Valjean's voice, to look at the way one lock of hair kept falling forward to rest against his forehead, to look at the wrinkles at his mouth when he smiled... It was enough to think of Valjean now to be overcome by emotion. 

He flushed and raised a hand to his brow, praying that Valjean would not notice the heat on his face. 

"There is a lot to apologize for. No man can make such a confession and expect to be treated as though nothing had happened. Well, now you know my own secrets, Valjean. Perhaps that is only right. And you have been kinder to me than I deserve. Let us talk about escape instead before someone returns."

Valjean was watching him with strangely intent curiosity, as though he could not quite understand what Javert had been trying to say. And of course, Javert thought, of course Valjean might be the only man in the world who could listen to another admit such sin, and then raise his blanket and allow him to sleep by his side, as though they were still brothers before God.

It was good to take his mind of such things for a while with talk of their circumstances. Valjean, Javert found out, had paid little attention to his surroundings. It made Javert's heart ache all over again to realize that before his arrival, Valjean had gladly surrendered himself to the death he thought was to come. But now that Javert was with him, such a thing would not happen. Javert would make certain of that. He did not know how, but there would have to be a way. God could not have sent Valjean to save him only to abandon that near-saint in his hour of need.

They were not, however, able to come up with any plan that seemed to promise success. Javert raised a brow at Valjean's hesitant admission that he had carried a hollowed coin within his pocket, before his coat was taken from him. How strange to hear now Valjean talk of the secrets of the bagne, to hear him use argot Javert had come to know so well, and yet to look at Valjean and see only that man who would feed him and clothe him, and who loved his daughter more than he loved his own life.

What a mystery this man was, Javert thought again with helpless adoration. He was all of these things: the convict from the galleys, the escapee who had fled so many times, the mayor who had brought prosperity to an entire town, the father who had raised a girl only to abandon her to her husband as though he did not deserve to share her joy. And more than that, this was the man who could quietly sit and read to him of far-away places, who would smile when he touched the brow of his pursuer, and who took a secret passage to his own house and hid away from his neighbors.

Now, with the threat of their situation endangering not only himself but also Javert, it seemed that Valjean's will to live had returned at last. Javert saw him carefully touch the iron bars and the lock that held the cell closed, searching for weaknesses, and he huffed with amused laughter. 

“I brought lockpicks when I trailed you,” he said, “just as though you were a criminal and I–”

He broke off and looked away. For a moment, anger at his own blindness nearly overwhelmed him. When he calmed again, Valjean stepped closer to peer curiously at his face.

“I wish you had not,” Valjean said simply. His voice was soft, but he did not move away, even though he was so close that Javert could feel the heat of his breath on his skin. “Because you would not be here otherwise. And because...” He hesitated for a moment. 

“Because that was not for you to see.” The words were weary and strangely defeated. “But it does not matter. What matters is your safety. And these bars are sturdy, Javert. The only way of escape that I can see is to try and overwhelm them once they have taken us out.”

“They bring guns.” Javert's mouth was dry. He could distract them. He could give Valjean time to run. He could put himself between Valjean and the guns. _Would you run if I were between you and the bullets?_ he wanted to ask, then bit back the words at the horrified realization that Valjean would certainly take it as a suggestion to put himself in harm's way to shield Javert instead.

Yes. That was the frustrating man he was slowly coming to know. And if he had learned one thing, it was that arguing would not change Valjean's mind.

#

When they were pulled from the cell later that day, Javert's hope was quickly dashed. This time it was iron shackles for both of them. Even as they were led past shadowed corridors and openings leading into darkness, and Javert craned his head until one of the men cuffed him hard again, he could not see any chance that they would make it that far. If only there would be some sort of diversion – one heartbeat when their guns would not be pointed at Valjean!

Again they passed the corridor where Javert had felt a light breeze the day before, and this time he thought he heard sounds somewhere in the distance. If they grew mushrooms down here, they had to bring the crates out. The workers had to come and go. Perhaps, if they could run and hide, they could leave among the group of men gathering the mushrooms. Perhaps–

But then they were past the corridor. One of the men behind Javert laughed softly and poked him with the barrel of the gun, and Javert ground his teeth and kept his eyes on Valjean as he walked on.

 _Please, God_ , his heart said, every step a prayer. _Please. Valjean._

The sight of Claquesous in his mask awaiting them, seated at the desk, was familiar by now. There were long lists spread out before him, and something that made Javert's heart beat faster when he beheld a corner of it peeking out from beneath a letter. Was that a map?

He could not get a good look at it. Again Javert found himself pushed against the wall, snarling defiance into the face of the man who still held a gun pressed to his head while another fastened chains to his shackles. Then it was time for Claquesous to stand and come their way. Javert's heart clenched with helpless hate when Claquesous stopped in front of Valjean and grabbed a fistful of the hair that he had dreamed of kissing.

“How are you today, Valjean? I'm sure you slept well. This must feel like home to you – the lash, the terrible company.”

He laughed, and Valjean did not react, did not pull back even as Javert seethed.

“You had time to think. Did you make up your mind?”

Javert tried to catch Valjean's eyes, but Valjean would not look at him. Instead, Valjean stood calm and patient at the wall. Weariness had descended upon him once more. The broad shoulders were bent, the eyes that had looked at Javert with such unfathomable emotion last night were downcast. Here before Javert was all the nobility of the proud, captured lion, and Javert's lips pulled back for another silent snarl when Claquesous tugged up Valjean's head by his hair.

“I will give you whatever you want,” Valjean said. “I don't have the secrets you think I have. I know nothing of that house; I rented it because of the secret passage to the Rue du Babylone, but that was all I desired. The owners did not share other secrets with me.”

Claquesous released his head at that and stepped back towards his desk. From a drawer, he pulled the whip once more, and Javert stiffened with revulsion at the thought that he might be forced to witness such a thing again: to hear Valjean's cries of pain, to see him bleed in his bonds, and yet be utterly helpless himself, chained so that he could not even reach out to protect or offer comfort!

“Can you not see that man speaks the truth?” Javert tore at the chains in an animal rage. Claquesous' face turned towards him for a moment, but then he returned to Valjean and prodded his side with the coiled whip.

“Come now, even an old con like you must be getting tired of this game. You must see you can't escape. Tell me what you know.”

Valjean's head was bowed. Javert saw a small shiver run through the powerful body. At last, Valjean raised his head and looked Claquesous in the eye. 

“Very well. You shall have my secret. It is the only secret of worth I have. There is a coffer. It is filled with bank-notes. The treasure of a man who was once mayor of a town and owner of a factory. It is hidden in a forest near Montfermeil. Javert knows of what I speak. I will tell you where it is hidden, and you will send Javert with your men. Javert knows where to dig. They will find the money and let Javert go, and then they will return with it. You will keep it and release me.”

Claquesous stared at Valjean. In turn, Javert stared at the glistening surface of the mask that did not betray any emotion, fear warring within him with relief – how could he leave Valjean behind? But if he left and escaped, he would be free to return and save Valjean! 

A heartbeat later, Claquesous brutally backhanded Valjean, so that Javert cried out instinctively and impotently pulled at the chains.

“And now I know that you are lying. You underestimate me, Jean Valjean. I have told you who I am, and still you underestimate me. Yes, I know who you are. You are Boulatruelle's devil!”

Blood dripped from Valjean's lip, and he had slumped against the wall, dazed from the way his head had hit the stone.

“I also know that the forest is empty, that one day, about a year ago, you went into it, and when you left again, there was a hole in the ground beneath a chestnut, and the treasure that had rested there, the bank-notes of which you speak, had vanished. So do not think I can be tricked that easily.”

Javert made another helpless sound when Claquesous used the whip to force up Valjean's head.

“I don't want your money. Do you think I am Jondrette, satisfied with crumbs? You are mocking me, and I do not take well to being mocked. Perhaps you will remember your manners when I've stripped the skin from your back.”

Claquesous held out his hand and the whip unrolled, hitting the ground with a sound that made Valjean flinch instinctively.

“Leave him alone!” Javert tore at the chains once more despite his aching wrists. “He knows nothing! Good God, just take his money! What else do you want?”

“But I have told you what I want. All the secrets of his house.” The mask was tilted his way, and Javert had to swallow sudden trepidation at the way it glinted in the light of the lamps, smooth and devoid of emotion. Claquesous would kill with that expression too, he thought. He would kill Valjean and feel not an ounce of remorse or grief or even pleasure.

“He does not know them! Look at him, you've nearly killed him!”

Once more Claquesous grabbed a fistful of Valjean's hair and forced his head up. Valjean groaned, his eyes dark and dazed as he blinked. More blood dripped from his lip.

“Don't touch him! Hurt me instead!” Javert cast out in challenge, the ache in his chest so fierce that he thought he must die if he were not allowed to touch Valjean. “You want secrets? How do you know that it's not I who has them? I've shadowed him for a long time! It was because I knew of the house!”

“Javert...” Valjean's voice was rough with pain. Javert clenched his teeth as he stared Claquesous down. Better to have the man angry at him. Better to be the one whipped to unconsciousness than to be forced to watch Valjean suffer.

“He cannot give you anything. He's just an old man. But you know me, Claquesous. You know I had you in my grasp once. You say Gisquet does not trust me? How do you know that he trusts you? Do you think it is coincidence I am here? Are you really that naive?”

“Am _I_ that naive?” Claquesous began to laugh and at last released Valjean. He stepped towards Javert, raising the whip to press it against Javert's throat, and still all Javert could feel was relief that for now, Valjean was safe.

“Javert.” The name was spoken softly. It took nearly the form of a caress, so close was Claquesous. Close enough that Javert could see his eyes glistening in the shadowed holes of the mask. Close enough that the man's breath moved against his face, and Javert had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. 

“You surprise me,” Claquesous murmured. “Yes, you do. I am glad now they let you live and brought you here. Who would have thought that you have secrets of your own.”

The whip was still pressed against his throat. He could breathe, albeit heavily – but the threat was there. 

Well, let Claquesous threaten. That was what he wanted.

Javert bared his teeth at him. “And you want my secrets. Of course you do.”

It was a challenge, and one he prayed Claquesous would take. He could not yet quite understand what had made the man turn from Valjean, for Javert had no secrets of his own. Perhaps it had been his talk of Gisquet. Perhaps that was Claquesous' sore spot: the hurt pride at the mere suggestion that his accomplices and friends among the police might not have shared all their secrets with him. Whatever it was, Javert endeavored to make use of it. Perhaps Claquesous would whip him instead for secrets that did not exist. Javert did not dare to break the gaze, but he could hear Valjean's pained breathing to his right. _Let him take me_ , Javert prayed, even as a corner of his mouth rose.

“You might have them,” he said. “Yes, I might share them all with you. Gisquet won't thank me, but what has he ever done for me? Well then. What will you pay in return for my secrets?”

Claquesous exhaled. When he lowered his arm, the whip trailing down Javert's chest, he said with slow, obvious enjoyment: “But Javert, you are wrong. I do not want your secrets. I have them already.”

Javert stiffened. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to flinch away from the threat of the whip. Instead he stared at the mask that gazed back at him with mocking emptiness. “You cannot,” he said at last. “Oh no. You know nothing of my secrets. Gisquet–”

“Gisquet!” Claquesous laughed in disdain as he began to coil up the whip. “Gisquet knows nothing of your secrets either. Gisquet doesn't know that you're in thrall to an old galley-slave. Gisquet doesn't know that Javert wouldn’t arrest the convict, but rather bend over for him and take it up the arse!”

Javert could not breathe. He could only stare, his face losing all color as he stood before Claquesous reduced at last to what he had known himself to be for months now: a sinner. A wretch. A man who would toss and turn in his bed at night and lay hand on himself with thoughts of another man's touch.

“So tell me, Javert. Now that I know your pitiful secret. What else is there you have to offer?”

Claquesous' head tilted to the side as Javert gaped at him. Javert could not speak. He could not even make himself turn to look at Valjean. Shame had torn a hole into him, there where before, his heart had beaten ceaselessly with only the thought of Valjean to fill his body with life. It was as if someone had stuck a knife into him; he could not have been more shocked had his heart been pierced with a dagger. To think that Claquesous, of all people, had overheard the shameful confession he had made to Valjean in the dark....

The thunder of his heartbeat drowned out all thought, all sound, save for the mortifying knowledge that his confession had been overheard, that another had stolen that most private, painful moment of his life, had torn a precious thing from him, and was now treading it into the dirt. His chest ached with a deep, raw pain, as though he had been cut open, his insides spilled out for Claquesous' amusement.

“Just as I thought,” Claquesous said after a moment.

Javert shuddered before him, unable to escape, spread out and helpless. What would Valjean think of him now? It was unbearable. To admit his secret to Valjean had been one thing. To hear Claquesous make a mockery of it, to speak of it with disgust and derision... 

“It's a rather useless little secret, Javert. What would I do with it? Perhaps I will tell Gisquet; that will make for a moment of amusement at least. We'll laugh about how his mangy dog likes to play the bitch.”

Javert ground his teeth again, unable to come up with a response. Hate and shame churned in his stomach. What was there to say? The truth was that Claquesous was right. But what did it matter? Better to give Claquesous a reason to hurt him than watch Valjean being whipped again.

“Remember, Claquesous, how I've had you in my grasp before! Gisquet must have been displeased. What's the word on the streets now? Are they still laughing about the way Patron-Minette tried to draw straws to escape from that garret?”

“Ah, you are taunting me. Very good, Javert, but I fear you have no talent for it.” Once more Claquesous' voice was as cold and smooth as his mask. “When I said useless, I was mistaken, of course. I think you're still going to be of use to me.”

At his sign, two of the men who had escorted them to the cave came forward and turned Javert, chaining him anew so that he faced the wall instead of Claquesous. Javert tried to calm his racing heart. This was what he wanted, after all. Better him than Valjean.

They ripped the shirt from his back, and now Valjean seemed to realize what was going on.

“He knows nothing! What are you doing?” he demanded. The words came out as little more than a hoarse croak. Javert turned his head at last to meet his gaze, tears welling up in his own eyes at the way Valjean was hanging in his chains. 

“Valjean,” he said softly, achingly. “Please.” _Please let me do this for you,_ he begged voicelessly, and Valjean's eyes widened, then blinked, his pupils dark and unfocused. Blood had dried on his mouth, and Javert ached to wipe it away with gentle hands, ached to take Valjean's hand and press a kiss to it and promise that no one would harm him again.

“I know that he knows nothing,” Claquesous said. Javert heard the terrifyingly familiar sound of the whip unrolled, shuddering as the leather hit the ground.

“That's not what I care about.”

Javert tried to focus on his breathing. Deep, slow breaths – and then Claquesous moved behind him, and a line of fire was laid across his back. 

He could not breathe. For one excruciating heartbeat, everything vanished, and what remained was the bright burst of pain that made him arch desperately against the unyielding stone before him.

Then the lash fell again, and a new splash of even brighter pain fell across his back. He panted, groaned, his hands tearing uselessly at the chains that held him. Another stroke followed, and he writhed in agony when it wrapped around his ribs, tearing at tender skin over barely-knitted bones.

There was a sound. Somewhere, beyond the rushing of blood in his ears and the fire that consumed his back, he heard a sound. Someone was moaning. 

He gasped for breath. Any moment, another strike would fall, and he pressed himself against the stone in fear even though he knew there was no escape – even though he knew he would not escape, for he bore this pain for Valjean. If he was given the choice, would he not willingly remain here and offer the skin of his back as sacrifice, if only it would spare Valjean?

His panting was loud and rough, the sound of a frightened animal, and he clenched his teeth and tried to straighten. His wrists burned where the iron had chafed. He grasped the chains in his hands, moaning softly as the shifting of his muscles called forth new pain – and then he turned his head, blinked to focus his weary eyes, and found Valjean staring at him, pale as a ghost.

If Javert had thought Valjean in agony before, there was no comparison to the sight that now met him. Valjean's skin was ashen, his eyes blood-shot; tears were leaking from them even as he met Javert's eyes, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly, murmuring.... a prayer, Javert realized after a moment, feeling a strange sort of joyous calm at the thought that Valjean was praying for him.

Certainly, no matter how depraved his thoughts turned at night, would not Christ forgive even a sinner like him if Jean Valjean prayed for his soul?

He tried to form a smile. Anything to give Valjean reassurance. Anything to–

Again the lash fell, and he squeezed his eyes shut, rocking into the hard embrace of the wall once more as pain exploded across his back.

A low grunt escaped him. His fingers clenched around the iron chains until his bones ached. Keep standing, he told himself dimly, keep standing, bear it, and another stroke of the whip came and left behind the fiery trail of agony that seemed to lay him bare to the bone. All he could do was grunt and gasp for breath and repeat to himself _bear it, bear it,_ until he could no longer remember the reason for it, only that it must be borne, no matter how.

There was a sound that reminded him of the sea. The roar of the wind over the waves that crashed against the shore. The tang of salt on his chapped lips. The moaning of prisoners somewhere in the distance. He grimaced, and the roaring increased. It took long, agonized moments until he realized that it was not the wind but the pounding of his blood in his ears.

He licked at his dry lips. His mouth was parched. His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth. He blinked – and then realized that it was not the moaning of prisoners in the distance he had heard. This was not Toulon.

When he opened his tear-crusted eyes, he found Valjean still watching him. Valjean's cheeks were wet with tears, and Javert coughed weakly and tried to force his stiff fingers to relax, aching to reach out and wipe the tears from that beloved face.

The clanking of the chains returned him to reality. His hand hung in the air between them – but the chain was too short, Javert could not reach. All he could do was watch helplessly as more tears ran down Valjean's cheeks, as the strong body shuddered and tensed against the chains that held him – and then stood motionless once more, shoulders bent, his eyes wide with fear and pain.

Pain for _him_ , Javert thought, humble and awed. Pain because Javert suffered. That sweet, foolish man. Did he not know that Javert would gladly bear all his burdens?

He swallowed against the ache of his dry throat. His lips parted. He wanted to say _Valjean_ , reassure him somehow – but the only thing that escaped his lips was a broken sound, and that, too, brought back memories. How many times had he listened to sounds such as these, and had turned away, his heart dry and withered in his chest, unmoved by the pain of others? Perhaps there was justice in his suffering now.

He licked his chapped lips again. Valjean was still watching him, and where before he had seen him endure even after Claquesous had laid his back bare, now Valjean's lips trembled and his eyes were wide and shocked, his body tensing again and again against the iron chains that held him captive.

“Please,” Valjean said. “ _Please_. He knows nothing. I last saw this man half a year ago. He knows nothing of me or the house!”

Javert groaned and tried to shake his head. Valjean's hand was stretching towards him. Javert looked at it. Valjean's fingers were dirty and covered in scratches, and the chain was too short for Valjean to reach him, but his hand hung in the air between them, trembling. Another tear ran down Valjean's cheek, and Javert watched as his own arm rose, painfully straining against the pull of the chains to stretch out towards Valjean. For one moment, their fingertips touched, and he smiled dizzily through the agony that emanated from his back.

Then Claquesous stepped between them.

“I know he has no answers for me. That's not why I hurt him. I don't care about Javert. But _you_ do. Isn't that true? Would you like to watch as I make him bleed?”

A shudder ran through Valjean, and Javert felt a different agony as Valjean's hand dropped and his eyes closed, his lips moving voicelessly in prayer. Again the strong muscles bunched and shifted; again the chains held. 

“Leave the man alone, Claquesous. You have nothing to gain from this.”

Claquesous laughed softly and prodded at Javert's back with the whip, so that Javert flinched. Valjean moaned.

“It's your decision. You want him unharmed? You want him to offer his arse to you again? You can have that. Just tell me what you know.”

Javert watched helplessly as Valjean covered his tear-stained face with a hand that still trembled. “Please,” he said again, choking on the words. “Hurt me, if you want. But he has nothing to do with this.”

“No!” Javert drew in another deep breath, then forced himself to grasp the chains again and stand upright. His fingers ached where they had clenched around the iron so hard that the chain had left red marks. “No. Don't, Valjean. You know nothing. Let him hurt me. It won't help him.”

Once more Claquesous drew the whip up along his side. Javert's body tried to flinch away instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. Instead, he made himself bare his teeth at Claquesous. “You do not frighten me. You keep forgetting that I've had you in my power before. Claquesous, the shadow – and yet you could not escape my grasp. I had you in irons, Claquesous. You might have run, but everyone knows that I had you.”

“Cease your yapping, mutt.” Again the lash exploded in a line of agony across his back, and he clenched his teeth against the cry that wanted to tear free from his lungs.

“Please!” Valjean cried, and Javert heard the clanking of chains as Valjean tried to reach out towards him. “Please! Stop it! Let him go, and I will tell you everything you want to know!”

Cold sweat dripped down Javert's face. He tasted blood and dirt on his lips and moaned weakly, limp in his chains for a long moment, his arms aching at the pull.

“Valjean,” he murmured at last, his eyes still closed. Everything hurt. His blood kept roaring in his ears, the tide rolling in, white-crested waves whipped up by the storm.

“Valjean.” His lips could form no other word. 

The pain made it hard to think, but even so he still saw Valjean's face, pale and marked by horror, and he thought dimly that if he could only reach out and touch, he would be able to make him see that everything would be all right. That he need not weep for Javert. That Javert would gladly give his life for him, but that he would prefer to live – to live and be allowed to see him again, to make sure that Valjean would no more weep alone in secret gardens.

“Don't...” he said weakly at last. “Don't. It is not so bad.” Somewhere, below the pain, something had bloomed, small and warm, at the thought that Valjean would weep for him. Foolish, foolish man, he thought again, but his lips twitched into a small smile.

“Tell me about the entrance to the catacombs,” Claquesous said. 

Valjean was silent for a moment. At last, he exhaled, and Javert felt another stab in his heart at how broken he sounded when at last he began to speak, as though he had aged a score of years while Javert had hung at the wall.

“Release Javert. As soon as he is safe and free, I will tell you what you want to know.”

Claquesous laughed, and Javert barely kept from flinching at the sound. 

“Do you take me for a fool? No. No, I won't free him, not until I have what I need. No more games, Valjean. I want answers. Every time you refuse to give me an answer, it will be another taste of the lash for him.”

“I cannot–” Valjean began, voice trembling, and Claquesous cut him off, his voice rising in anger at last.

“Come now! I will kill him right here before your eyes if that is what it takes! You say you do not care? You're begging for his life already!”

Even through the pain, Javert shivered at the way Valjean stiffened as though the words had hit him like the lash.

Javert moaned softly when Claquesous unchained him, his wrists burning when the chains were released and the shackles fell open to reveal chafed, abraded skin. Here was his chance now, he thought deliriously even as his strength left him and he fell to his knees, groaning again at the impact.

His hands were free. If he could only find a way to wrap them around Claquesous' throat, or to surprise him and take the gun; to strangle him with his own whip...

But his back was still burning like fire, all of his muscles tense with agony. He could not move. Hate made him tremble as much as pain as he stared dizzily at Claquesous' boots where they now appeared before him. Boots, new and shiny, made from the finest leather. And yet, fresh soil clung to them: soil from the mushroom gardens. He wanted to laugh in despair. If only he had known then. If only Gisquet had believed him. If only he had not insulted Gisquet so...

A cry escaped him when Claquesous roughly fisted his hair to pull up his head. Cold iron was pressed to his throat. Desperately, Javert gasped for air as the muscles in his back locked up and a new wave of pain rolled through him until he felt dizzy and sick. Tears pooled in his eyes, his vision blurring, his blood roaring in his ears once more. It took a long moment until he realized that Claquesous was talking, demanding answers yet again.

Javert swallowed. The knife pressed down harder until he was blinking against the tears of pain, desperately trying to focus. There before him, Valjean still hung from the wall, arms straining against the chains, his skin glistening with sweat as he desperately tried to fight their hold.

 _Valjean,_ Javert wanted to say, but all that escaped was another groan. At the sound a shiver ran through Valjean, and he ceased fighting. His eyes were wide and dark when they met Javert's, his face still pale, marked by lines of deep anguish.

"Javert! Javert!" he said, and Javert watched as new tears dripped down his face. Again Javert groaned and tried to lean forward – anything to soothe Valjean! – but then the hand in his hair tightened and pulled back his head, and the knife was pressed so hard against his skin that he could feel wetness run down his throat and wondered whether he had been cut, whether this was how we would die: bleeding out his life in front of the man who had pulled him out of the river.

"Please!" Valjean now begged, choking on his tears, "oh God, please, leave him be! I will tell you what I know!"

The knife at Javert's throat did not relent. "Where's the entrance to the tunnels? I've had enough of this game. Quick now, or I'll kill your sodomite."

"In the shack," Valjean said, his eyes still on Javert's. Another tear ran down his face, and again Javert tried to reach out towards him.

“In the cellar; there is a door in the ground. I was given no key for it when I rented it. I tried to open it once, but it would not give. That must be what you are looking for. Send your men there; you'll have someone who can force the lock!”

Claquesous hesitated for a moment. Javert groaned weakly again, his head still forced back so far that tears kept pooling in his eyes. Above him, Valjean was a blurry figure against the stark stone of the wall, his arms spread as he hung suffering in his chains, his face surrounded by the whiteness of his hair.

Then Claquesous released Javert's head and pushed him forward in derision. For one long moment of agony, Javert curled up at Valjean's feet, panting for breath as the movement sent pain once more burning along the red lines on his back. When the pain receded at last, and he managed to slowly push himself onto his hands and knees, he saw that Claquesous had already turned from them.

Valjean was still looking down at him, his chest heaving, and Javert rested his forehead against his leg for a moment, too exhausted to move or feel shame. Let them think what they wanted. Let them call him Valjean's lapdog. He would gladly wear his chains if only he could spare Valjean all torment.

There was a hand against his cheek. Blindly, he turned into the touch, pressed his wet face to it, a fierce, wild joy welling up which for one moment even managed to override the pain. _Valjean,_ he thought again, all his heart filled by this one word that was the purest form of prayer, his soul expanding in gratefulness that he had been allowed to spare Valjean this torture.

“Take them back to the cell,” Claquesous said somewhere behind him. Javert closed his eyes, trying to pretend for one short moment of happiness that nothing else existed but this touch: Valjean reaching out towards him.

“Take good care, Valjean. Should my men return and tell me that you lied to me...”

Claquesous did not finish his threat, but Javert felt Valjean shiver. He still could feel no fear himself. He had spared Valjean pain, if only for one day. He did not know what would happen when the men returned – but for now, they were safe, and had time to think of a way to make their escape.

He smiled when they tore him at last from Valjean. Certainly God would not give him such a moment of grace only to allow Valjean to die here. He had to believe in that. Valjean would be safe, because if God could rescue a man like him from the Seine, he could not forsake Valjean, not ever.


	13. Hope in the Darkest Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God sends a Guardian Angel, and Jean Valjean finds himself kissed.

He slept. The walk back to the cell had been agony; he could barely remember it. What he remembered were strong, gentle hands helping him to lie down on the straw, cool water washing the sweat and blood from his body, and a beloved voice murmuring in his ear when he flinched at the pain.

The voice brought back memories of the weeks spent in Valjean's bed, and for long moments he floated in them, blissfully. Had he truly thought to run from that place? How foolish an idea. He had never known such peace before. No matter the sordid desires of his body, was it not heaven enough just to feel that comforting weight of Valjean's hand on his shoulder as he drifted off?

When at last he woke, it was to find Valjean curled up against him so that he smiled, still half thinking it must be a dream, and moved closer until he was breathing in the scent of his hair as he slipped back into sleep.

In the morning, it was worse. His muscles had tensed so much during the ordeal that even where the lash had not reached, he felt sore and weak, his bones aching in their joints. Where the lash had torn his skin in places, the wounds had scabbed over, or so Valjean proclaimed when he insisted on washing his back once more. Javert sat still for it, shivering as though he had a fever when Valjean wiped the cold, wet cloth patiently over the hot skin of his back. When was the last time he had been as miserable? Javert found he could not say. They had kept him well dosed with laudanum in Valjean's bed at first; all he remembered were dim visions of Valjean with his white hair like a halo around his face, and the strong grip of the sleep that had pulled him under again and again.

Here, in the cell, he did not have that luxury – but that was for the best, he thought, and forced himself to sit up straight even though the pain made him grimace. It would not do to allow himself to get stiff and weak. If anything, their danger had deepened. Now more than ever they needed to find a way to escape.

How much time would they have until Claquesous could send a man to verify Valjean's claim of a secret door? Claquesous would be careful; certainly he would send someone at night. What time was it? They could no longer say. Javert could only pray that Claquesous would do his business here in the catacombs in the mornings. Perhaps they had a day left, if luck was on their side. Perhaps less.

Grimacing again, he made his way towards the iron bars.

Perhaps -- Valjean was so strong, perhaps--

Even as he began to feel along the bars again for any weakness to where they connected to the stone, he doubted that Valjean could break them free of this place. Valjean was weaker than he had been. Days of captivity and little food, not to speak of the torture at Claquesous' hands, had left their mark on him. No, he could not demand of Valjean to perform another miracle. Their wits would have to save them, if they could be saved at all.

Javert took hold of a small rock and began to scratch along where one of the bars seemed to rest uneasily in the stone. It would not lead to much, his brain supplied, but he ground his teeth and scratched harder for a moment, glad to have something to distract himself from his fears and the ache of his back.

He leaned his head against the bars as he worked, listening to Valjean moving behind him. Perhaps, if they destroyed the bucked, sharpened the pieces of wood, used them instead of knives when their captors returned -- his lips pulled back for a voiceless snarl of bitter amusement. A wooden stake against men armed with pistols. Well. Perhaps it was the best chance they could get. Perhaps, after having been patient for so long, their captors had grown complacent...

He closed his eyes, his hands ceasing their work as he breathed deeply. _Let me die by his side if I have to die_ , he prayed. _But if You are just, You will see how much he has sacrificed in Your name._

Even as he spoke the words in his mind, he wanted to shake his head at himself. Had it come so far that he, Javert, was reduced to praying, to beg for some sort of miracle when all of his life he had labored under the tenet that mercy was the province of the Church, and justice the province of men like him?

He knew little of prayer and mercy still, even after the long months he had spent in Valjean's care. But if there was a justice above this paltry shadow he had blindly clung to for so long, if the justice of Jean Valjean existed, then it had to be God's justice too. 

Then God had a duty to keep Jean Valjean safe, who had saved so many others.

 _Save him,_ he begged again, and then flushed with embarrassment when he realized that Valjean had fallen silent behind him. Had Valjean watched him cling to the bars and mutter like a lunatic?

He considered turning around, facing Valjean - facing, perhaps, that memory in his eyes of what he had confessed yesterday. Perhaps there would be no judgment. He could still barely believe that there had been no pity yesterday. Perhaps, somehow, despite that confession, Valjean would not look at him in pity now, and they would never speak of it again.

He closed his eyes with a bitter smile as he realized that he might well die before he would even know whether Valjean could accept his friendship. Whether he could even teach himself how to treat this man as his brother.

And was it not strange that after everything that had happened, this was how he had ended up, on his knees in a cell, dreaming of a kind touch from the man who had thwarted his chosen death in the water?

There was a soft sound somewhere in the distance, and he bent his head. That sound was the familiar clanking of a door opened somewhere. They must be returning. He thought to pray again, for what else was there left to do now, but instead he sat in silence as terror gripped his heart.

It was different this time. This time, there were only two, and somewhere within him hope began to blossom. Even if they had pistols, the odds might be the best they would have – this was a chance they could not allow to pass! He tensed as he waited. His back still ached, and his body was sore all over, but it would not matter, he told himself. Not if at last there was a chance he might save Valjean.

When they came close enough that at last, the flickering light of the lamp illuminated the shadowed figures, Javert saw to his surprise that one of them was the slight figure of an older woman. She carried a basket, and no weapon that Javert could see, and he clenched his jaw against the wild hope that was surging up. He could not rejoice too early. Maybe they would simply walk past. Maybe she was here to refill the lamps. Maybe she brought food, he thought, and his stomach twisted with hunger. How long had it been? 

If only they would open the door. If only...

The man who had come with her scoffed and leaned against the wall. The woman, her head bent, shuffled towards the bars. Was she afraid? Javert almost smiled as he realized how he had to look, his chest bare, bloody welts covering his back.

Well. The more miserable he seemed, the higher the chance that they might actually open the door. He could see now that she had indeed brought food; there was bread in her basket, and a small pot of what smelled like stew.

His stomach clenched. Let them open the door, he prayed again – but the woman moved timidly forward, her hands trembling visibly as she reached into her basket to pull out the small loaf of bread. Then she looked up.

For one moment, he could not breathe as recognition hit him with the force of lightning. It was Toussaint. There, before him in the gloomy corridor, Toussaint had knelt down, her face hooded by a shawl, hesitating as she held the bread as though she feared she would be attacked by ravenous animals as soon as she passed it through the bars. And then she looked into Javert's face, and her eyes widened as she took him in.

He knew that she recognized him. Her mouth opened, formed a little “Oh,” and quickly, instinctively, terrified that the man would realize that something was amiss, he reached out for the bread in her hand. “About time,” he said. “I'm sure your master wouldn't want us to starve. After he went through all this trouble of inviting us here.”

The guard sneered, and then turned towards the sputtering lamp, and Javert rested his hand on her arm, his fingers trembling as well now at this unexpected miracle. Had his prayers been granted after all? Had God taken pity on Jean Valjean and sent them help in the most unlikely way?

His eyes were still wide with disbelief, but her arm was real beneath his fingers. He nodded over his shoulder and felt her stiffen with horror when she beheld Valjean.

How had she come to be in this place?

But this was not the time for questions. The man put the lamp back down, and Javert quickly let go of her arm, his fingers gripping the stale bread instead. His heart was beating so hard and fast in his chest that he thought the guard must be able to sense his terror and elation at this guardian angel sent by God himself. He looked at her again. He ached to plead for help – but the man was watching them now, and he dared not speak. If the guard suspected anything out of the ordinary, who knew what he might do. And Toussaint was smart. She had served Valjean long and well. She had thought him a saint. However she had come to be in this place, she would know the danger they were in. She had seen the lash-marks on their bodies. Maybe she even knew what Claquesous was planning.

She would find a way to return. He willed that knowledge into his eyes, offered another prayer up to that merciful God who had once more shown them hope in the darkest hour. _Please let her return. Or let her escape and send for help._

The small pot of stew was pushed through the bars. The guard scoffed again.

“I will be back for the pot,” Toussaint said, stuttering, and Javert forced himself to glower at the guard instead. 

“Bring more when you return,” he said curtly, his eyes holding hers, praying again that she would understand, that she would help. “We're starving.”

“Enough,” the man said, and just like that, she was forced to turn, reluctantly. Javert wrapped his trembling fingers around the small, still-warm pot to keep from reaching out or giving away any sign that he knew her.

Patience, he told himself, his back aching anew from the way his muscles had tensed. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his jaw hurt from the way he clenched his teeth to hold back any sound that might escape and give away the secret. But the guard did not speak as they left, did not turn, and at last, when even the sound of their steps had died away in the distance, Javert shuddered and bent forward over the pot, closing his eyes and offering up a voiceless prayer of gratitude.

Valjean would be safe. No matter how, they would find a way out, now that they had found that an ally was moving unrecognized amongst their captors.

“Javert...”

“Here. You must eat,” he said, his voice trembling as he carried the food towards Valjean, ignoring the pain of his back. What did the lash-marks matter now when here, a miracle had shown them a first, true chance at escape?

“Javert, that--”

“I know,” he said hastily and put the pot down between them on the ground, interrupting Valjean before he could speak her name. A shudder rolled over his shoulders as he wondered for a moment whether Claquesous was still hiding somewhere in the shadows, watching, listening.

“I know, and that is why you must eat now. Do you see? Now more than ever you need your strength. Trust me, Jean Valjean! I told you I would not let you die!”

For a moment, he felt his lips widening into what must surely be a grimace of terrible joy, but Valjean did not shy away. Instead, his hand came to rest very gently on Javert's arm.

“I trust you, Javert.” The words were spoken softly, and yet Javert's eyes widened and he nearly flinched back. Warmth spread through him, and deep within his chest, his heart trembled with wonder. 

“After everything, you still trust me...” Javert marveled as he looked at Valjean for a long moment, and then he flushed and had to turn his head away. 

“You truly are the best of men.” He muttered it under his breath, but there was a stark, naked truth to it. He prayed Valjean would not take it as mockery.

“Now come. The stew she brought is still warm.”

The bread in his hand was stale, but he tore it into pieces, and they soaked it in the stew. It was simple enough fare: the meat was gristly and tough, and not at all what Toussaint had prepared when he had slept in Valjean's bed. But they were both starved and ravenous, and Javert thought he had never tasted anything more delicious.

When he looked up at last, Valjean was watching him pensively. There were crumbs of bread in the white stubble that had sprouted on his jaw during the days of captivity, and without thinking, Javert reached out to wipe them away with careful fingers, remembering Valjean's own gentle hands on him when he had spilled tea on himself. Now it was Valjean who held still, lines of weariness and pain around his mouth and barely healed lash-marks on his back, and Javert ached once more for some way to help this man carry his burden. He remembered still how lifeless his voice had been, how all light in his eyes seemed to have already faded when he spoke of death – one more burden for him to carry, and a final test: for him who had given so much already, to now give his life too, if that would keep the daughter he loved safe.

But who would keep Valjean safe? Who would sacrifice everything for him? 

Javert's eyes lingered on Valjean's face. To kiss him, to find a way to make him see that he was loved and cherished and admired for who he was...

Instinct made him reach out for Valjean's hand, and Valjean allowed it. Javert flushed, embarrassed, his heart still pounding in his chest from nothing but Valjean's closeness and the spread of the warmth within him. He lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to it, praying that somehow, Valjean would understand how dearly Javert loved him, how esteemed he was, how Javert would do anything at all to see him safe...

Valjean swallowed. For a moment, Javert feared he would pull his hand away. Instead, Valjean reached out, and the fingers of his other hand came to rest against Javert's cheek, trembling slightly.

“Javert,” he said, and then fell silent. His chest was rising and falling. Javert looked at him, took in the flush of his cheeks, the way his eyes were wide and dark. Again he found himself acting without thought, leaning forward to press his lips to Valjean's brow, aching to give comfort as Valjean had comforted him when he had wearied of his own life.

Instead, his lips brushed Valjean's mouth. 

Javert's heart ceased beating for one endless moment, only to start again with a shock that echoed through him as though someone had touched his soul and branded it with holiness. Valjean's lips were warm and damp against his, and although Valjean was tense and did not move, he did not pull away either. His hand still rested against Javert's cheek, and now Javert felt his thumb hesitantly trace along his whiskers, and he remembered how carefully Valjean had run the razor over his skin, and sighed against Valjean's lips.

It seemed impossible that this should be happening. For so long, his heart had yearned for this thing that now to have it left him transfixed once more, and he felt light, hollow-boned, as if something had lifted him and filled him with the goodness of this man. Before, when he had shamefully thought of touching Valjean, of being touched in turn, he had tossed and turned in torment, and the lusts of his body had seemed vile and wrong to him, a debasement he could not demand of Valjean.

But now, Valjean's fingers against his cheek were real and warm, and if neither of them knew how to kiss, it did not matter, he thought dizzily, his heart expanding within his chest until there was nothing but disbelieving joy. He could feel warm air against his lips, breathed in Valjean's own breath, remaining in place for what seemed to him an entire lifetime of overwhelmed wonder. His lips tentatively dared to search out the shape of Valjean's, learning their touch and their softness and their warmth for long minutes while neither of them moved.

He could not say who pulled away first, only that he was dizzy, that it was hard to breathe, and that his lips still tingled with the memory of Valjean's touch.

“Valjean...” he said and then fell silent, for what words could express such a wonder?

Valjean flushed. His fingers were still resting against Javert's cheek, and he drew his thumb slowly down Javert's jaw, the lightest caress, before he at last withdrew.

Valjean's face was flushed, and he did not speak. If he was not certain what he had seen before, Javert thought that he could make out his emotions well enough now: embarrassment. Hesitation. But also, the hint of a smile on his lips, small and disbelieving, and he committed it to his memory like a precious gift even as Valjean lowered his eyes and turned away.

For long minutes, they remained there, seated on the cold ground, although Javert was still filled by warmth, fighting the urge to touch his own lips in wonder. It had happened. It had truly happened. It had been no dream.

“You are right. We need to think about escape,” Valjean said at last, his voice low, as though he too feared that someone might listen. When their eyes met again, Javert thought that he still saw that hint of a smile, and he felt his own heart swell once more.

“Did you have any luck with the bucket?”

Valjean shook his head. “At best it makes a weapon.. I thought, if I could find a nail, a scrap of metal... But this will not help us. There is nothing here to force the lock. They took my coat; if I still had my coin...”

Javert's eyes came to rest on the bucket once more – and then continued to the small well behind it.

“We do not know what is down there. I could try to dive,” he offered slowly. “People drop all sorts of things into wells.”

Now Valjean gave him a reluctant smile. “The keys to our cell?”

Javert grimaced. It was a foolish hope. And yet... “Perhaps a nail. A weapon. A scrap of metal.”

It was the only hope they had, if Toussaint should not return.

“I don't think you will find anything down there, Javert.” Valjean's hand came to rest on his arm, and again his heart fluttered at the touch. To think that Valjean should be worried for him! 

“No, it is too dangerous. We must rest our hopes on other things.”

“We must also act quickly,” Javert said quietly, looking down at where Valjean's fingers rested so innocently on his skin. “We do not know how much time we have until he has verified your claim. Is... did you tell him the truth?”

Valjean nodded, and then, after a moment of hesitation, he leaned forward, his breath warm against Javert's ear.

“There is a trapdoor. It is locked, but I opened it. There was only earth. If there is a tunnel, it is blocked.”

Javert swallowed heavily. All he would have to do was to turn his head, and Valjean's lips would brush his own once more... How strange that what had seemed impossible to imagine had now become truth, was no longer fantasy but memory!

He licked his lips. “If it is blocked,” he said after a long moment, his heartbeat pounding in his throat as Valjean continued to breathe against his skin, “it might truly be the passage he seeks. They might try to shovel it open. It could give us another day or two.”

Valjean sighed and straightened, although his eyes were shadowed. He rested a hand on Javert's arm. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, his voice low. “You should not have--”

His hand slipped from Javert's arm, and he closed them into fists. “I should not have allowed it to happen.” There was such quiet pain in the words that Javert's stomach clenched, and now it was he who leaned forward, hesitating for one heartbeat before he very gently touched Valjean's cheek.

“I was glad for every stroke, because it spared you pain.”

“Javert...” Valjean did not move back, but now he squeezed his eyes shut, and Javert watched in horror as he saw the wet gleam of tears appear from beneath his lids once more. “It is worse agony to see you suffer in my stead. Forgive me. Every welt, every bruise – I am at fault for all of these. You followed me. And now he hurts you, because that is what hurts me the most.”

Javert watched in disbelief as this man who had already born the impossible, who bore the same lash marks as Javert and beneath them the scars from half a life-time of torment, now wept for Javert's pain. He tried to speak, but found that no words would come. Again he cursed himself. Had he not promised to be a friend? And yet, here Valjean was suffering still, and Javert did not know how to offer comfort.

“I am your friend,” he said finally, tracing the trails of tears with trembling fingertips. Valjean's lashes quivered against his fingers as he brushed ever so lightly against them. “I am your friend. If you want that, you will have to let me share your pain.”

Valjean looked at him, his eyes widening. His lips parted, but no words escaped, and at last he helplessly shook his head. Javert watched as new tears welled up in his eyes.

“I do not know why you--” he began at last. His voice shook. Javert remembered how warm his lips had been. To press his lips to his cheek instead, to kiss away those tears – that was not what a friend would do, and yet he ached for it. Instead he reached out once more to wipe away the tears that fell with a fingertip.

“It needs no reason.” There was embarrassment in him. How should he speak of this thing in his chest that yearned for nothing more than the weight of Valjean's hand in his, the sensation of that wet cheek against his own?

“You hurt because you had to watch my pain? Then you must know how I feel. How it hurts – here.” 

He took hold of Valjean's hand then and reverently pressed it against where his heart was racing in his chest. Valjean's fingers trembled against his skin. The contact shocked him to the core. How intimate it was; how frightening. How vulnerable he felt, with only the thin layer of his skin and ribs parting Valjean's warm hand from this heart that was pounding within him, hot and alive. The organ of an animal it was, pumping red blood burning with that spring-time heat to mate, to lay claim and be claimed in turn.

Would Valjean not know? Would he not be frightened by how vulgar this heart was that had swollen in Javert's breast?

And yet, that was not all there was. 

“You did this,” he whispered, even as Valjean's fingertips seared his skin. “Your touch made this heart in me grow. And now I barely know what to do with myself.”

Valjean's breath escaped him in a small, shocked exhalation. His fingers twitched, as though he wanted to pull back – but then they flattened, spread, and Javert had to close his eyes as Valjean's hand pressed warm and firm against his chest. 

_I would let you cup my heart_ he thought. _Hold it in your hand. The entire hot, bloody, imperfect thing of it. And I would pray it is enough. That in your hands, it can grow into something patient and tender._

“God gave you that heart. You might not have cared for it, Javert, but it was always there.”

They were so close. So close. He could lean forward now – mere inches, and he would taste Valjean's mouth once more, feel hot breath flutter against his lips. Instead, he slid his hand over Valjean's and held it pressed against the heart that was beating loud in his chest, all blood and tissue and terrifying humanity. Valjean's fingers were warm against his skin, and Javert felt the heart within him beat, filling him with that pulsating sound of the drum, the loud, steady throb of his human flesh nestled within that cage of easily broken bone. What a brittle thing he was. How strange that such a fragile thing could contain the feelings that now moved beneath his skin along with the racing pulse of his blood. 

Valjean's look was intent. Javert wondered what he thought. Could he feel what Javert felt: that terrifying mix of doubt and fear and upheaval that was what his world now consisted of? Could he feel the bruises of his heart, the aching expansion of new-grown muscle and raw skin that felt pulled beyond their capacity to stretch and contain the love that had sprung up from nowhere?

“You gave it to me,” he insisted, and then laughed, half in despair, half in stunned disbelief.

“What a fool I am,” he muttered and reluctantly lowered his hand, his fingers tingling with the warmth of Valjean's skin. And yet Valjean was still touching him, his palm warm and certain against where his heart beat in fear.

“You are my friend,” Valjean said, and Javert drew in a small, shocked breath when the words hit him with the force of a blow. 

“That is what you tell me. And you are right. You must be, to be here with me. To let yourself be beaten for me...” Valjean fell silent, and Javert did not dare to move for fear it would dislodge Valjean's hand from his heart. 

“Does it hurt very much?” Valjean asked at last, his voice soft and rough with emotion, so that Javert again yearned to press his lips to where earlier he had seen tears glisten on those lashes.

 _You have known worse,_ Javert wanted to say, but could not. Or, _I deserve it, and more_.

But this was Valjean, who had followed a madman into the rapids of the Seine. Valjean would absolve Lucifer himself of his sins, he thought, and wanted to shake his head.

Instead, he took a deep breath, noting the twinging of his sore muscles and the burning lines of pain where the lash had scoured his skin. “I can walk. Even run, if it comes to that. That is what is important now.”

Valjean's hand was still on his chest, his fingertips strangely rough and warm against skin that prickled, as though it had never known touch before. Javert looked down at last, too weary to resist, and had to swallow. He was leaner than he had been before the river. The old bruises were gone, but he had gained new marks here in the caves. There was a sparse scattering of still dark hair covering his chest, and there rested Jean Valjean's hand, a dear thing that he had pressed his lips to, as bruised and covered in scratches and dust as the rest of their skin. And below it, his hungry heart was beating, that heart of the starved wolf who had hunted his prey for so long, and who now, at that kind touch, knew himself tamed instead. 

“It is a strong heart,” Valjean said, and Javert felt the ache in his chest at this kindness Valjean was offering even now. “We will run together, if we have to.”


	14. A Breath Becomes a Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toussaint returns, a door opens, and Javert finds himself one step closer to Paradise.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed. To accurately predict the passage of time even without a clock was a talent Javert, like so many policemen, had perfected through the long years of his service. But now, after seemingly endless days of darkness and torment, and with the memory of Valjean's lips still burning on his own, time slipped away from him until it seemed that life in the sunlight had never been more than a dream.

They waited. It might have been an hour or two before they once again heard sounds: distant steps echoing softly through the corridor, the mutter of voices, once a crash and the creaking of wood. Not Toussaint, Javert thought, looking at Valjean, who slowly shook his head. They were both standing at the bars of their cell now, watching the flickering lamplight, listening for sounds in the darkness. If there was any hope for them now, it would have to come from Toussaint.

Another hour might have passed before there seemed a change in the gloom of the passage that led to the left. The men had always come from the right – but now the darkness seemed to lift a little, and Javert thought that there had been a sound, like that of a pebble crushed underneath a shoe. Valjean's hand gripped his arm. They were both silent, tensing in preparation.

Then, out of the darkness stepped Toussaint with a covered lamp, and Javert exhaled with a hiss as relief flooded through him.

“Silent now,” she said before they could speak. “There's not much time – monsieur, you do not know – but here, here, take these, and please be silent, I beg you! Oh monsieur, they might find me gone any minute, although they do not pay attention to old Toussaint at all--”

“Toussaint,” Valjean breathed and clasped her hand for a second. “What miracle has brought you here?”

“Oh, do not speak, monsieur!” She had placed something into Valjean's hands and now tightened his fingers around it. “Here, this is all I can do – you must leave, do you understand? These are not good men. I was to work for a farmer, you see, it was good pay! They did not say I was to feed these workers underground, always hidden in caves, never to see the sun! But quickly now, monsieur! Quickly! There is no time, I have to return!”

Valjean's fingers uncurled, and Javert inhaled in shock as he saw what rested there in his palm. Not keys – but this unexpected gift was just as good. Maybe even better. Lockpicks. 

“I took them from one of the workers. Gringoire went with the men to the southern caves. He will not miss them for another hour or two, but they will return soon and I need to have the stew ready, and then, monsieur, then he might think to check the coat he left, and he will see they are gone, and oh, monsieur, these men are bad people, bad, bad people, you must--”

“Come with us, Toussaint.” Valjean's hand tightened around hers. “Please.”

She shook her head, her eyes gleaming with terror in the light of her small lamp. “I cannot. No, monsieur, I cannot! My stew is waiting, and the men will be hungry, and--”

“Toussaint, please, you need to leave this place!”

Javert watched as she took a deep breath and then reached out to cover Valjean's hand with her own. “Monsieur, it is you who must flee! This very instant, monsieur, there is no time to hesitate! I am just old Toussaint. They pay me no attention. They look past me, as if I were just another crate of mushrooms. But tomorrow, monsieur, I promise I will say that I need to go to Mass and to see my niece, and they will let me go up into the sunlight with the men whose shift has ended, and I will not return, I promise.”

Valjean hesitated for a long moment. Javert looked at where his fingers still grasped her hand. Impatience bubbled hot and urgent beneath his skin; nerves and sinews were tense as bowstrings as he listened with bated breath for new voices in the darkness that would signal their doom – but everything was silent . He wanted to grab Valjean's shoulder and pull him away, make him run as fast as he could – and yet, what fate would await Toussaint should these men find out that it was she who had helped them escape?

He thought of trying to run with Toussaint stumbling between them. Could she be silent? Could she be swift? Could she run for hours even without food or water?

He clenched his jaw.

“He is right. You should come with us,” he found himself saying, nearly taken aback by the surprised and grateful look Valjean gave him.

“I can help you no more, monsieur. Please, you must hurry once I am gone. I cannot come with you, but you must leave this very instant!”

“Do you know the way out?” Javert asked before Valjean could protest again. “When they took us to see Claquesous – I thought I could feel a breeze of cold air.”

“No, no, do not go that way!” There was new panic in Toussaint's eyes. “That way they bring in the new men, and bring out the crates; there is always someone there, always! Go to the left, the way I have come! There are other ways out – follow the path, just follow it, there will be another mushroom cave, but abandoned now, you will recognize it! Go past it, go on and on, there will be ladders eventually, ladders and lamps. The cave's not used for a few more days until the new manure comes in, and the way out is not guarded. Just go, you will find it!”

“Toussaint--”

She shook her head, her lips tightly pressed together as she withdrew her hand from Valjean's grasp. “You are a saint, monsieur, the good God will not abandon you now. Go!”

She slipped away as swiftly and as silently as she had come. Javert watched, his mind still reeling, as the small light of her dimmed lamp was swallowed by the darkness.

What miracle was this? Had it truly been Toussaint, or had God at last sent a guardian angel to deliver Valjean from his tormentors? Had his prayers been heard, had once more a miracle taken place here? 

He remembered now the conversation in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, the work that had been promised her – good pay for easy work, she had said, and he shook his head in wonder. For one moment, it seemed to him that a warm light had filled their cave, a gentle hand that had touched him where his new, raw heart was still aching with the force of the love and fear within him. Had providence once more raised Valjean out of darkness?

“Come,” he said softly. “Come now. She is right. We have no time. This is it, Valjean. This is our only chance.”

Valjean took a deep breath, and then he nodded and moved to kneel before the lock. Javert grabbed his coat as Valjean set to work. Every click and clink seemed to echo ominously in the dark corridor beyond – surely someone would hear? Surely there had to be men somewhere guarding these cells?

No one came. They remained alone as Valjean worked intently, those strong, bruised fingers jiggling the lockpicks, listening for the telltale sounds of iron clicking into place – and then, suddenly, the door swung open with a rusty creak that made Javert's heart stop in his chest, and when it picked up again after a second, terror and elation rushed through him.

“Quick now,” Valjean said, his eyes wide with fear – fear for _him_ , Javert thought with wonder even as he followed him out of their cell, watching as Valjean took hold of the lamp and dimmed it as much as possible. Warmth bloomed alongside the terror, and he wanted to draw Valjean into his arms, touch his fingers to his face in reassurance and disbelieving joy – but there was no time now. Later, he told himself as they rushed through the corridor, hastening along the path Toussaint had taken as well. Later.

Every step they took echoed through the empty tunnel. The lamp did not light more than a few steps in front of them. Javert held Valjean's arm clasped as they hurried forward. The tunnel was narrow; there were no lamps lit along the way, and Javert prayed that Toussaint had been right, and that all paths would be abandoned today. Again he thought of Claquesous, who was well known for his supernatural ability to vanish into the night like a shadow. It must have been the quarries and catacombs and sewers all along. No wonder that he had always found a hole to hide away in. But it also meant that Claquesous still had an advantage on them. As soon as he saw that they were gone, he would send out men to hunt them down – and if he knew these tunnels as well as Javert feared, soon they would be pursued by men who knew exactly where they might have gone.

The ground beneath them rose. Javert had counted three more cells like their own, the doors open, the small caves empty. Once, there had been another gate that seemed to lock a corridor leading away into the darkness; when Valjean shone his light through the bars, they could see a heap of rocks and rubble barring the way.

The path remained empty. They moved slowly when they turned corners, dimming the lamp as much as they could without losing the precious flame; then, once Valjean had reassured himself that the tunnel before them continued to be abandoned, they hastened forward once more. They did not speak, but Javert kept his hand on Valjean's arm, feeling the tension of his muscles.

At last the tunnel led downwards once more. There were smaller tunnels leading off to the left, and once a larger corridor opening to the right; there were cart tracks on the ground, and Javert thought that he could make out the by now familiar musty smell of old, damp earth.

Valjean shook his head and gestured forward, and after a moment, Javert nodded, remembering Toussaint's words. They had no choice but to go onward. If they were to lose themselves in this underground maze without even a thread to follow, Claquesous would recover them sooner or later – or worse, they would spare him the work if their lamp ran out of oil and they stumbled into a chasm, or wandered so deeply down a forgotten quarry that they starved before they could be returned for further torment.

There was sweat on Valjean's face, and dust in his hair, but his eyes lingered on Javert for a moment. He did not smile, but there was warmth in his gaze, and worry. Javert took a deep breath before he nodded slightly and tightened his fingers. _I am with you,_ his heart said, and even the threat of the hungry darkness intent on swallowing them seemed to lift at the realization that Valjean knew what Javert could not speak.

As they continued, the smell of musty soil grew more noticeable. The tunnel had widened a little, and they were walking on a thin layer of dirt. Again there were cart tracks, and Javert thought that the workers had to bring soil and manure in this way – which meant that they were still on the path Toussaint had wanted them to take, walking towards one of the currently abandoned mushroom caverns. 

Alcoves began to appear now, filled with broken boxes and empty crates, and when they passed another, Javert took an unlit lamp with him that was still half filled with oil.

The tunnel ended at last in a large cave. It was completely dark, and as Valjean carefully undimmed their lamp, out of the shadows rose long, regular rows of piled up earth. The cave was large enough that their lamp did not suffice to show where it ended. Pillars of roughly-hewn stone ascended from the ground, and stacked around them were more crates and a few abandoned carts.

When they slowly moved forward, Valjean stopped next to one of the rows and touched his fingers to the soil. “Dry,” he murmured. “No one has been here for a while. Let us pray that Toussaint is right, and that no one will come to check on these parts until we are gone.”

Javert turned. Shadows moved and turned with them, dark against the deeper blackness beyond, and he shivered instinctively, remembering how Claquesous' voice had spoken to him out of the darkness that first night. Were there eyes watching them even now?

“Let us hurry,” he said after a moment, moving close enough that Valjean's shoulder brushed his own. “We made it this far. We will make it out as well.”

Valjean's hand came to gently rest against Javert's arm once more, and then they continued, making their way through the long rows of dry earth. 

No one stopped them. No voice came resounding out of the darkness. Still Javert's heart was racing in his chest, and he did not dare to breathe a sigh of relief until they had reached the other side of the cave. There was what appeared to be a small ante-chamber, filled with more crates and piles of dusty sacks. Shovels and rakes were propped up against one wall, as well as a few more lamps. On a shelf, Javert found a tinderbox and took it with relief. Now at least they would be able to turn off the lamp if they had to. Javert still remembered all too well the horror of that first night and day spent in the darkness; even with Valjean by his side, the thought of stumbling blindly through Claquesous' maze still terrified him.

The tunnel that led out of the cave was covered with a thin layer of dirt as well; there were still cart tracks and every now and then the imprints of shoes. After a while, they found another abandoned cave filled with rows of dry earth. Still the tunnel went on. In silent agreement, they followed the old cart tracks – the soil had to be brought in somewhere, and the mushrooms had to be transported out, and Javert prayed that sooner or later, they would feel a breeze of fresh air on their skin.

It still seemed absurd to think that Claquesous' secret underground empire was this – and yet. If it was true that Claquesous' father was a respectable man – was it not also possible that Claquesous had at last decided to use all the influence and power he had gained in the underworld of Paris to fabricate a respectable guise for himself as well? If what Toussaint had overheard was true, his father had mapped the sewers. If Claquesous had had access to those maps from the beginning, if he had gained enough gold and influence to now use the rewards of a life of crime to build what would from the outside seem like an honest career built on the growth and sale of champignons de Paris...

Javert grimaced. Who would believe such a tale? Not Gisquet. But then, he had proof – although, could he expect Valjean to testify as to what had happened down here?

His chest ached at the thought. No. He could not ask such a thing. Worse, even if Valjean offered, he could not accept it. It was bad enough that Claquesous knew the truth. Javert would have to find a way to silence him before Claquesous could use that knowledge.

The sudden appearance of a ladder before them disrupted his thoughts. Valjean looked at it with a frown, then angled the lamp upwards to see where it disappeared to.

“We should try to go up,” he said after a moment, clearly hesitating. “It's not where the carts come from, but...”

Javert frowned at the darkness above them. “I think we should follow--”

There was a creaking echoing from somewhere in the distance. They froze. Valjean quickly turned the lamp down, until all they could see in the dim glow were their faces and the steps of the ladder before them.

The echo died out. Javert's heart was pounding in his chest, and for a moment he was not certain whether it was his own heartbeat or the steps of their pursuers he was hearing.

Another croak, an ominous rumble, and then a distant shout. Valjean's eyes met his. They were wide and terrified, and when Valjean pushed him towards the ladder, he took hold of it instinctively and found himself halfway up before he had even registered what he was doing.

He could hear Valjean climbing up behind him. Above him, everything was darkness. He felt for the next step, pulled himself up, listened intently – and then there was another distant thump, another shout, and he clenched his teeth and tried to move up faster.

When there were finally no more stairs, he pulled himself onto the stone of whatever opening the ladder had led to. A moment later, Valjean made his way up as well, and with the dim light of the lamp, Javert could see that they had arrived on a small platform that opened to yet another tunnel. This one seemed much narrower than the corridor that had connected the caves, but here, too, there was a layer of dry dirt. Javert prayed that they had found a shortcut used by the workers. Certainly whoever labored down here would not want to remain in the darkness for long. 

The sounds were still soft and distant, but regular now: creaks, thumps, occasionally another shout. They looked at each other, and then Valjean shook his head. Javert exhaled wearily. He knew that Valjean was right, that they must continue, but tiredness and the constant fear had stolen all resolve from him. It seemed that they had run and hidden in the darkness for so long that now that they found their path blocked, for a moment he could not think of what to do.

Valjean's hand came to rest on his arm again. It tightened a little, bringing with it warmth and reassurance, and as guilty as Javert felt to take it instead of offering it, he closed his eyes and dropped his head, giving in to quiet despair even as Valjean's hand slowly, hesitantly stroked up his shoulder.

There it lingered, heavy and comforting, and after a long minute had passed, Javert exhaled deeply again and forced his weary body to rise. He took hold of Valjean's arm to help him up, and for a moment they stood chest to chest. Javert's eyes lingered on Valjean's mouth before he could force himself to turn away, embarrassed by how even now, when they were in such grave danger, his body still remembered the sensation of Valjean's lips warm against his own.

“Come,” Javert said very softly and lead the way through the opening before them. The tunnel beyond was blessedly silent. The sounds were more distant now, and Javert prayed that this narrow tunnel would lead away from them. Their only hope was to find a different way out – or, perhaps, in case this tunnel lead nowhere, to wait until whoever was in their path left again, if worst came to worst. They had left no traces of their passing, after all. No one would expect them to hide up here. 

The ground of the small corridor was rougher than the tunnel they had followed so far. They walked slowly; after a while, Valjean undimmed the lamp a little to make it easier to see. By now the sounds from the caves below them had completely died away, and Javert supposed that a little light was better than the racket they would make were they to stumble over stones in the dark.

The tunnel seemed to lead upwards. They must have walked for ten minutes before they passed a first small alcove; it was empty but for a few dirty sacks, and Javert swallowed his disappointment. They would need water soon, he thought. And so would the men who labored down here. Would there not be more wells?

The light of their lamp flickered. Everything was silent but for the sound of their breathing and their steps. Javert ached to reach out and take Valjean's hand; he made do with lightly resting his hand against Valjean's arm now and then.

Would these tunnels never end? Another tunnel opened to their right, another alcove – or was it yet another cave? - loomed dark before them, and there, from above came another ladder.

In frustration, Javert pulled at the tangled strands of his hair, cursed under his breath.

“We will get lost,” he said at last when Valjean angled the lamp to see where the ladder went. “She said, follow the large caves. Who knows where we will end up if we get ourselves lost in this rabbit warren instead?”

Valjean turned towards him. “We are not lost. We can still make our way back to the caves. It is easy enough to retrace our steps.”

“Well! Perhaps it is now! But what if we climb up that ladder, and come to another crossroad, and--”

Valjean did not speak, but he studied Javert's face very carefully, and then, after a moment's hesitation, reached out to rest his hand against his cheek. Javert's heart gave a painful thud, all thought gone at that simple touch.

“Going up is good. But you are right, Javert, we are both exhausted. We have walked for a long time. How is your back?”

Javert swallowed, watching the shadows play on Valjean's face. “I am not so bad. And you are hurt just as much,” he muttered at last. “I am – are you not thirsty?”

Valjean nodded slowly, and at last lowered his hand. Javert had to hold back a sigh of regret.

“Come, let us look at that cave before us.”

Javert's brow creased as he followed , Valjean leading the way as though he had not suffered through days of torment already. “I thought up is good?”

“Yes,” Valjean said, and then turned to give him a sweet smile that made Javert's stomach tighten. “But I think I smell water.”

And indeed, there it was. Another well – more of a hollow filled with water that came seeping from a cleft in the stone, but it was more than enough for the two of them to drink deeply.

The cave seemed to be another abandoned storage space – or at least, one that had not been used for a while. There were a few empty barrels and boxes, a broken stool, and a heap of empty sacks that from the smell of dry, musty earth might once have held the fertilized soil for mushroom farming.

Again Javert listened intently, but the sounds that had caused them such fear had long since died away in the distance. They should be safe here, he thought. For now. If they did not get lost.

“We should rest,” Valjean said after a moment. “We have water, and we are far from where Claquesous' men are working. It is the best we will find.”

Javert raised his head, cold water dripping from his chin and the hair that hung in dusty strands around his face. He resisted the urge to shake himself like a dog. Valjean was watching him, and he watched in turn as water ran down his face, his hair curling from the moisture.

“Let us hope that we find a way out before we starve.” Javert swallowed again as Valjean wiped sweat and dust from his brow with a weary hand.

They made a bed of the empty sacks behind the row of barrels and crates. It would perhaps not hide them were the cave searched – but it should serve well enough to keep them out of sight should workers pass through the tunnels. In any case, his nerves were so tense that Javert doubted that he would find any sleep at all, not while his heartbeat still pounded in his ears with the terrifying echo of the steps of their captors, but his exhaustion proved greater than he had thought.

When he woke, for a moment he could not remember where he was. The warmth of Valjean against him was familiar by now, as was the flickering light of the lamp, but the shadows moved differently, and something about the air seemed wrong.

After a long, terrified minute, he realized at last that they lay curled up behind the row of empty barrels. He shivered a little when the tension fell away, his breath escaping him in a deep sigh. They were free. They were free, and they were safe. At least for now.

He swallowed, then rested his arm daringly around Valjean, his heartbeat calming at last at that reminder that they were still together. Valjean was here with him. Claquesous would not hurt Valjean again, not as long as Javert yet lived.

“You should sleep some more,” Valjean whispered, and Javert flushed in the darkness. Had he woken Valjean?

“You have not slept long. Rest.”

“What about you? Have you slept?” Javert asked. He licked his lips. It was hard to make out Valjean's expression, but they were so close that he could feel Valjean's breath on his face. His fingertips ached with the need to reach out and trace the lines of his face to commit them to memory all over again.

“A little.”

“Does your back ache?”

“Does yours?” Valjean asked gently, and again Javert flushed. 

“He hurt you worse,” he muttered, and then, because he could not help himself, he raised his hand and rested it very lightly against Valjean's hair. “No one should ever hurt you again. If there is one reason God made you save me, then it has to be to make certain of that.”

Valjean shook his head, and Javert pressed his fingers against his mouth before Valjean could speak.

“No. No, do not say it, Valjean, I beg you. It is the truth; accept it. It is in any case good enough a reason for me, and I thank both Him and you that I am here now.”

Valjean's lips were very soft against his fingers. Again Javert trembled, adrift at sea in this storm of longing within him. Was it not true that it would be enough to be this man's friend? Had he not sworn that he would never ask for more if he could only have Valjean's forgiveness and company?

Valjean's breath seemed to be coming faster now. For a moment, Javert felt dread rise within him at the thought that Valjean might come to fear him. And yet – had he not allowed himself to be kissed? Was there not hope that perhaps, he could bear Javert's presence, even Javert's love, if Javert could learn to be tender? 

“I wish I could love you chastely, as you deserve,” he muttered at last, feeling sheepish at the way his body had begun to rouse with desire despite his words.

Oh, to kiss Valjean was one thing. But to make him aware of the full force of Javert's hunger for him, to force Valjean to feel what grew so thick and hard between Javert's legs, the utter vulgarity of his cravings...

Valjean's lips parted a little. The air he exhaled against his fingers was hot and damp. Then – there. Was that a kiss?

Javert drew in a shocked breath when slowly, tentatively, Valjean pressed another gentle kiss to a fingertip. Then Valjean drew back and licked his lips.

“Javert,” he said, his voice soft and uncertain, his face half hidden in shadows. “You need not – there is no need for apologies.”

Javert wanted to scoff. Would the man next tell him that he did not deserve friendship, or a pure, tender love instead of the hunger of this wild beast within Javert? Javert meant to pull back, but instead, he found himself drawing the pad of his thumb along Valjean's bottom lip while his hardening flesh pulsed in response.

“You deserve apologies as well as love.” Again Javert felt hollow inside, sore and raw. What had once been his core had been torn out of him; instead, what grew within him now was this new, aching heart, and yet it was not enough to fill the space that echoed with every hungry thud of this heart. He wanted to draw Valjean's hands inside his chest, to lay them gently onto the soreness there. He wanted to breathe in Valjean's breath, soothe the hunger in him by filling himself with the man's goodness.

He wanted--

He had leaned forward, drawn without thought, and now once more his lips gently touched Valjean's. He shuddered, terrified even now that Valjean would push him away, that Valjean would be frightened or disgusted – but Valjean's lips remained warm and soft against his own. Javert breathed in Valjean's breath, and stroked his face with gentle fingertips that trembled at the sacredness of this touch.

This was to touch God, he thought devoutly, feeling the roughness of stubble, the warmth of skin, the fine hairs that curled from behind Valjean's ear. How strange that he had never seen before that God had cast love in this form, in every imperfection, in every wrinkle, every small scar, every soft breath. He wanted to prostrate himself before it. He wanted to wrap himself in it. He wanted to – hungrily, jealously – demand of God to make the same of him for Valjean, to give Valjean this taste of Paradise at the way Javert's lips breathed against his own.

 _I love you,_ he wanted to say, and _Lie like this with me forever_ , and both were demands that could not be made. Instead, he breathed in with delight what he was given, cradling Valjean's face with joy, learning the shape and the tenderness of Valjean's mouth anew with his own.

There was darkness around them. There was Valjean beside him, allowing him to gently kiss those lips as though he had a right to do such a thing. It still seemed wrong to want to lay claim on Jean Valjean in such a way.

And yet, had not Valjean acquiesced the second time to such a touch? Was it not perhaps true that Valjean could allow this love, which Javert still feared was that of a savage beast hungry to despoil, while Javert could learn how to touch without bringing pain?

Perhaps even to touch and bring pleasure?

A soft groan escaped him at the thought. He was hard, shamefully so, the flesh between his legs eager and filled with blood, and Javert's hand trembled against Valjean's cheek with the need to touch himself there.

Something within him tightened at the unbidden image that arose – Valjean's hand there, Valjean touching, demanding pleasure from his body--

Javert pulled himself away with a hoarse sound of humiliation, panting as he covered his face with his hands. “What am I doing?” he asked himself in his despair, and only realized that it was too late, that he had spoken it out loud, when Valjean's hand closed around his wrist.

Javert stared at the hand in despair. The devouring hunger within him was so great that for one moment, he considered how easy it might be to shake it off and then run--

And yet. Had he not run before? Even before that night when he had spilled himself onto Valjean's sheets, had not Valjean held his wrist in a similar way, trying to save him then, as he had tried to save Javert time and again?

And had he not learned by now that every time he ran, it only added to Valjean's burdens and brought him more pain?

He laughed soundlessly, baring his teeth as he knew himself trapped once more by the wolf that was his conscience. No, he could not run. How could he ever abandon Valjean in these caves? And, more importantly, he would not run from those base hungers of his body. He had asked Valjean for friendship; he owed it to Valjean to be truthful with him in all things now. Otherwise any decision Valjean made, any kind touch bestowed upon him, would be rendered worthless by his lie.

“Forgive me,” he began, then hesitated. His heart was racing in his breast again; his hair rested wild in dirty tangles around his face. He raked his fingers through it in despair as he forced himself to meet Valjean's eyes.

Valjean was calm. Very well, Javert told himself. That was good. That was--

Valjean's lips were red and swollen, and as he watched, Valjean moistened them with his tongue. The selfish desire within him rose up once more, so that he shuddered at the force of it when Valjean deserved nothing but gentleness.

“Valjean,” he said, still staring at those lips with equal parts terror and terrible lust. “Valjean. Do you – do you mind if I--”

He groaned. He could not speak it, any of it. It was impossible.

But Valjean paused for one moment, and Javert thought he saw him flush a little in the light of the lamp. 

“No,” Valjean said, and though his voice was tentative, he held Javert's eyes. “No. I think... I do not mind at all.”

Javert could not say what had happened next. Perhaps the beast within him had taken over. All he knew was that all of a sudden Valjean's mouth was soft and hot as it opened beneath him. He groaned with confused need as Valjean allowed that too, such intimate, unbearable touch as his tongue slid inside. How overwhelming it was to know Valjean in such a way: the taste of him, the sensation of his tongue slick and hesitant against his own, the strange messiness of it all that made his heart beat painfully fast, the half-swallowed groans and gasps that could not all be his own.

 _Valjean, Valjean, Valjean,_ he keep saying, but all he heard were moans and the roar of his blood in his ears.

It was intoxicating. It was like being drunk, like swallowing down spoonfuls of laudanum and slipping away – only this was not _away_ , this was _here_ , more _here_ than anything he had ever known. Valjean's heart was beating hard and fast against his own, the rhythm nearly panicked, Valjean's breath was filling his throat and all of his senses were overwhelmed by Valjean's taste until he thought that he would die should their mouths ever part...

He was burning. The throb between his legs was a terrible ache now, and then there was hard muscle against him. He moaned gratefully into Valjean's mouth as his hips moved against his thigh. It was too late now to think – a part of him still felt disgust at what he was doing to Valjean, but the fire burned through him, clean and hot and too terrible not to be beautiful – and then Valjean shifted, a gasp breathed against his lips, a hand tentatively tightening in his hair as an answering hardness pressed against his stomach.

For a moment he could not make sense of it. Was this Valjean, could he truly desire – 

Another moan escaped from somewhere deep within his chest, breathed forward by that beast within him, eagerly swallowed down by Valjean. Then all his thoughts scattered apart, and there was only the sensation of Valjean's hands on him, Valjean's mouth hot and open beneath his own, and their bodies striving against each other. The burn of the coarse fabric trapped between their burgeoning flesh was nearly painful, and he groaned again at the sensation of it, the physicality of Valjean's desire pressed against his own. It was impossible, it was too much: the thickness and hardness of it, real and frightening and exhilarating as he pushed against it, rubbing the aching bulge between his legs against it again and again to draw out rough moans from trembling lips. And then, that greatest wonder: the answering groan, Valjean's mouth slack against his own, Valjean's body tensing and arching. Helplessly, Javert moaned as he felt the fluids of Valjean's own release spill hot between them, his own body following with a rush of pleasure that left him feeling wrung out, nerves seared and painful.

“My God. My God,” Valjean breathed when it was done. Javert's heart lurched, paused, started again. Then Valjean's hand was on his face, fingertips trembling with awe and embarrassment, and he could not bear the thought all of a sudden that Valjean might feel embarrassment when it was he, Javert, who had brought this all about.

If God judged for this, let Him judge Javert. He would gladly burn in Hell for this, if he bought a few hours of pleasure for Valjean by it. Once more he drew Valjean's face close enough to cover his lips with his own, wanting to speak reassurance, knowing only how to say _I love you_ like this, with the brush of lips against lips, every breath a prayer inhaled from Valjean.

 _My God,_ he thought too. _Let me have this. Let him have this. If he truly wants this, let me give him comfort._


	15. Into the Maw of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert descend deeper into the dark tunnels below Paris.

It had seemed impossible to find rest after what had come to pass, but somehow, they had drifted back into exhausted sleep, wrapped in each others arms. Javert woke again to the weight of Valjean's leg on his thigh, and a strand of his hair brushing his nose every time Valjean exhaled. His shoulder ached, and the coarse bags itched against the welts on his back, but Valjean was warm and real against him, and for the first time, he did not have to fear that Valjean would wake and look at him with horror or disgust.

It had happened, he thought, hesitating for a moment before he allowed himself to slide his arm around Valjean's waist. Valjean had allowed him to kiss him. Had not flinched away. Had not flinched even from the physicality of Javert's desire, but had instead moved against him, with him, had gasped _my God_ as he was overwhelmed with pleasure...

Very gently, Javert moved until Valjean was resting on his back by his side and he could look down on him. He could still barely believe that he had kissed those lips. 

He brushed away a strand of hair, his fingers shaking a little as he touched Valjean's cheek. How strange that they had to come here to know each other.

Valjean blinked sluggishly as he woke, and Javert, whose first instinct was to pull his hand away, found that he could not. Instead, as he looked down into those eyes that now gazed at him with returned awareness, red-rimmed and surrounded by lines of pain and weariness, he let his fingers linger ever so lightly against the side of Valjean's face.

He wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to hide in the warmth of Valjean's embrace once more.

Instead, he drew his fingertips lightly down Valjean's cheek. He stopped before he reached Valjean's lips, although he could not stop staring at them. How close they were. How little it would take to lean forward just a little and kiss him again. Kiss Jean Valjean.

The mere thought made his heart twist in his chest with sudden need, and he nearly drew away lest his eagerness should get the better of him. Would it not be better to wait until Valjean had time to think about what they had done?

Then Javert imagined what would happen if he drew away now: a long, exhausting day of walking through tunnels side by side, with this heavy and unsaid between them. Would that not be a worse torment than being rejected?

No more secrets, he told himself. Even now, he did not know what to say to Valjean. But he could at least make certain that Valjean knew how much he cherished him still. That to Javert, there had been nothing degrading or shameful in what had happened last night.

It was that thought of walking silently by Valjean's side, never daring to mention again what had come to pass, that undid him.

Slowly, he leaned forward, his eyes intent on Valjean's, his fingertips light against his chin. Valjean's eyes widened a little, but he did not move away nor protest, and then their lips met, and Javert felt a voiceless moan rise in his throat.

Valjean's lips were dry and rough against his, but they were warm, and when Javert's fingers kept gently stroking his cheek, Valjean exhaled a little, his eyes sliding shut. The kiss was nothing like last night. There was none of the need and despair in it. It felt nearly like kissing him for the first time again, and heat spread through all of Javert's limbs at the joyful realization that Valjean truly did not mind this, that he was kissing Valjean and Valjean was taking pleasure in it. What did it matter what would happen once they escaped? For now, all that mattered was Valjean's lips brushing affection against his own, tentative movements and small huffs of warm air exhaled against Javert's mouth as they learned how to rest together like this.

When they parted, Valjean's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes kept sliding away from Javert's – although they would always return, looking at him with an emotion unbelievably close to joy.

“Do not look at me like that,” Javert muttered, his skin hot as well, his lips twitching into what he was certain was a foolish smile. 

“How am I looking at you?” The words were tentative, but Valjean's eyes were warm and his cheeks were flushed, and Javert felt overwhelmed by the need to bend down and kiss him once more. Instead, he allowed himself to trace a finger down Valjean's cheek again.

“As though you enjoy kissing me,” he said, and then, feeling churlish at how that must have sounded to Valjean, “As though you would not mind if I did it again. As though – as though you'd want me to--”

Valjean's eyes were wide, and shadowed by some emotion Javert could not name. Was it doubt? There was a line between Valjean's brows now; Javert ached at seeing it, and wished he had not spoken. Why had he not simply accepted this gift? What need was there to question something that might never happen again...

“But Javert,” Valjean said at last, and the doubt seemed to transform into determination before Javert's eyes. “I do not know how else to look at you. Because... because I would not mind. If you...wanted that again.”

Valjean licked his lips. “To kiss,” he then said with obvious embarrassment. “Although I do not know why...”

Javert made a sound that came out as despairing laughter. “You are – do you not remember what you did to me yesterday? How much I desire you...” 

Speaking these words was difficult, but, he supposed, it was only too possible that they would die in this place. What was there left to lose now? 

“I have no explanation or apology. I have never--” Javert made a helpless gesture with his hand, not even quite certain himself what it was supposed to mean. “This. I have never done it. Never, Valjean. Never even felt such a thing for another. But now there is you, and I would lay down my life for you, and I do not know how to speak of these things, or even how to – how to kiss you properly, but--”

Valjean leaned up and forward. For a moment, Javert's heart stopped as he thought that Valjean might try to kiss him. Instead, Valjean's hand came to rest once more over his heart, and Javert let out a shuddering breath at the contact. 

“I know even less of such things, Javert. But I have come to trust you. I trust your heart.” The line between his brows was still there, and Javert ached to smooth it away with the brush of his lips. But then Valjean smiled, that small, rare smile that had brought light even to the darkness Javert had found himself locked in. 

“And I trust these lips.” Valjean raised his hand, hesitating a moment before he touched Javert's mouth very gently with his fingertips. “You have suffered for me. Do you think-- No, Javert. I am not afraid of you. I trust you.”

Warmth rushed through Javert, and he felt his cheeks heat, speechless at the gentle contact. Valjean was touching him. Valjean was touching him so gently that he thought this might count as a caress. The word felt strange on Javert's tongue, a new thing neither his lips nor his mind was used to forming yet – and still, Valjean's fingertips rested lightly against his mouth.

Was there a chance that, once all this was over, Valjean might still cherish his company? Javert did not know how to contain the warmth that filled his heart to overflowing at the thought of sitting in Valjean's garden by his side on a late summer evening, or walking with him through the Luxembourg. Could such a thing be possible?

 _I will make it possible_ , he thought, and then felt himself flush at his own audacity. No. What mattered now was Valjean's safety. That was all he desired. If Valjean left this cave alive, he could ask for no greater mercy.

“We need to go on,” Javert said, and Valjean's fingers dropped from his lips at the reminder. Their absence was an ache, and he yearned again to put his mouth to Valjean's, to draw him close enough that he could feel his heartbeat against his skin – but there was no time. How many hours had passed? Their escape would have already been discovered.

It was harder to get up again this time than it had ever been before, not only because pain and exhaustion made his muscles lock up. That moment of resting with Valjean in his arms, remembering with awe that moment of pleasure they had shared between them, still seemed unreal and fragile, like a dream. Might it not vanish like mist in the sunlight as soon as they left this quiet place? And yet – how would he ever be able to forget the way Valjean's mouth had gone slack, the sound breathed against him that he had never heard before, not in the bagne, not in dark street-corners?

And Valjean trusted him. Valjean had touched him again, had given him that achingly hesitant smile. If Valjean could trust him, then Javert could in turn put his faith in Valjean's trust.

The lamp was low on oil after burning through the night, even though they had dimmed it as much as they could. Javert refilled it with what they had found, and debated for a moment whether they should return to the storage space.

But certainly Claquesous already knew of their escape. Time was of the essence now. They needed to go on. Most importantly, they needed to go _up_.

"Come," he said, allowing Valjean to lead the way out of their small room. After a moment, he moved to walk by his side instead, his arm brushing Valjean's, and the look Valjean gave him was surprised, but warm.

This was not so bad, Javert thought as he flushed again, feeling ridiculous, though still unable to relinquish this place by Valjean's side. What did it matter what might happen later? To have this alone was enough for now.

The tunnel they followed continued to lead forward. After a while, it became impossible to walk side by side, and so Javert reluctantly took the spot in the front to light the way with their lamp. The dust in the air made the thirst return quickly, but the small niches they passed every now and then were empty, or filled with debris. Again Javert thought of how they might have to return from where they had come – but Claquesous was behind them, and there had been the sounds in front of them, where the exit must be. It was a chance they could not yet take. And this small tunnel had been used for some purpose. It had to lead somewhere, Javert reassured himself. Eventually, they would arrive wherever the workers who had used this tunnel had gone. And where would workers go? They would go out.

Or back down to wherever Claquesous needed them.

Once, they found another forgotten lamp in an alcove. It was mostly empty, but Javert filled what little oil remained into their other lamp.

"Who knows how long we will be down here," he murmured, and then was rewarded with a light touch to his shoulder.

"We have come so far. And think of the help we have already been sent. We will find a way out," Valjean said. Javert took a deep breath.

How strange it was to have that gentle touch and that kind voice lift the burden of despair from his shoulders! Again he thought of Valjean's tears in the garden in the Rue Plumet. Would his touch be able to give the same hope one day? Now more than ever he was determined to show himself worthy of Valjean's faith.

"Onward then. This path has to lead somewhere. It took work to carve it out. It would not be done for no reason."

"Let us hope that they also carved a well somewhere," Valjean said, and Javert could only nod, the dryness of his throat a worse distraction than the hunger that was starting to gnaw at him once more.

As they trudged on, they took care to investigate all nooks and openings they found. But this time, luck was not on their side; there were no more abandoned store rooms, and the few times it seemed like another tunnel was opening up in the wall, it was blocked by debris or no more than a small, unfinished alcove.

Javert could not say how long they walked. His throat was dry and his back ached, sweat dripping down the welts. He wondered how Valjean was faring, but dared not ask. And it would make no sense to rest without food or water. They had no choice now but to go on.

Again the tunnel began to slope upwards a little. Javert grimaced with disgust at the state he was in. His feet ached, and his hair hung in sweaty, dusty tangles around his head. He brushed it back in frustration, thinking with longing of the cold water they had drawn up from the well in their cell. What he would not give now to be able to dunk his entire head into a bucket, to shake himself like a horse afterwards and pour what was left over his filthy, sweaty body, and then drink, drink mouthful after mouthful of sweet, clear water, drink until--

"Javert!" Valjean's hand on his shoulder made him stop, and he realized that they had come at last into another cave. The room was small – it would have enough space for a handful of men, he supposed, and there was another alcove filled with the remnants of broken boxes. But most importantly, in the middle of this small cave, another shadowed hole loomed – and above them, there was the same. An opening in the cave's roof, large enough for a man to climb through. Not unlike the hole through which they had come into this tunnel, and certainly, certainly leading them one step closer to the outside now--

"There is no ladder, Javert," Valjean said after a moment, and Javert's shoulders fell as he realized that Valjean was right. He raised the lamp as high as he could, trying to shine light into the shaft – but there was no ladder, and no rope that he could see. 

For a moment, he contemplated asking Valjean to lift him up into the hole – or, if Valjean stepped on his back, he might pull himself up...

But there was nothing to see, just further darkness where the light of the lamp ended, and he shuddered at the thought of asking Valjean, who was in pain and exhausted, to climb up where unknown dangers might await them.

"There's a ladder that leads down," Valjean pointed out after a moment. He took the light from Javert to carefully shine it down into the narrow tunnel.

When Javert bent over the hole, he could not make out the bottom of the shaft. The steps of the ladder vanished into darkness after a few feet. But there was a ladder, and for now it was their only option to go onward, unless they wanted to retrace their steps.

"Well," he murmured, trying to suppress his disappointment. "If we go back down, there's a higher chance we might pass a well."

Valjean gave him a hopeful look. "We've walked for so long. Do you think we might have passed those men? Perhaps we'll find ourselves past them, and closer to the exit Toussaint mentioned." 

Javert found himself nodding. Neither of them was willing to walk all the way back, it seemed. 

"If there's nothing down there, we can always return,” he said. “But there has to be something. Why else this intersection where a tunnel goes up and down? We must be closer to where they bring men in and out."

Javert did not know if his words made sense, but he wanted to believe in them. Valjean gave him a relieved nod in turn and then handed him the lamp. He was the first to make his way down into the darkness, Javert following with the lamp dimmed again so that they might not be seen from a distance.

As they climbed down the tunnel, there was only the sound of their breathing and their feet reaching for new steps. It was exhausting, and it felt like they kept descending for a long time – far longer than it had taken them to climb up from the caves the day before.

When it finally ended, Javert was startled by the touch of Valjean's hand to his hip, but then quickly made his way down the last few steps, breathing heavily as he came to stand by Valjean's side.

Another small, round cave, featureless, with dirt that had been trodden into the ground by countless feet. And there was an opening that led into further darkness. They could not hear any sounds. Javert was panic-stricken for a moment – what if they were nowhere near that exit? What if they had climbed to a yet deeper level, abandoned even by Claquesous' workers, and would wander around in the dark for hours without food or water until at last they even ran out of lamp oil?

Valjean put a hand on his arm. "Can you smell that?" he said softly.

Javert straightened, warmed by the touch, and took a deep breath. "It smells like soil."

Valjean gave him another of those tentative smiles that made Javert flush. "We must still be close. Close enough to those mushroom caves, at least. Come."

When they stepped out of the small cave that held the ladder, they found that the tunnel led to a larger corridor – much like the one that had led them to the mushroom caves in the first place! In his excitement, Javert grabbed Valjean's hand, and then found himself struck mute by embarrassment and the sheer delight of Valjean's hand in his. Valjean did not speak either, although his fingers tightened around Javert's with a pressure that could have been encouragement for their flight – and Javert kept hold of his hand, flushed and breathless and flustered as they slowly made their way through the corridor. 

There were none of the mounds of soil they had seen before, but soon they found hills of old dry dirt brushed to the side of the cave. Further on they found all the accouterments of the mushroom growers that were already familiar: dirty sacks that seemed to have held fresh soil or manure, broken crates, even here and there a small, straggling mushroom sprouting despite all odds from a heap of dry soil.

They were not lost. 

Javert took a deep breath. They were not lost: they were still in the area Toussaint had pointed them to. Sooner or later, they would come to the exit. What mattered now was the question of whether they had made it past whoever had caused the sounds they had overheard before, or whether their wanderings had led them into a completely different direction, so that they might soon find their way blocked by Claquesous' men again.

But for now, they had no choice but to go onward. More alcoves and corridors appeared on their way, but Javert was still loath to leave the large corridor with its many tracks of foots and carts, and the larger caves opening up from it. Every now and then, they would shine their light into those alcoves and narrower tunnels, but they never explored them further than a few paces. So far, none of these had yielded more than darkness and the occasional crate or unlit lamp. 

At least they would not run out of lamp oil any time soon, Javert told himself, although his tongue felt thick with thirst now. But there had been no barrels of water left behind, no well – not even the scent of water somewhere in the distance.

He exhaled heavily when they made their way through another empty cave into another corridor. Valjean pulled his hand from his at the sound, but before Javert registered the loss, it came to rest on his shoulder instead. 

"I know you must be tired and thirsty," Valjean said, and Javert flushed again with embarrassment. 

"It is nothing, Valjean. And we have no choice. We need to go on."

Valjean nodded, although he gave him a searching look, and then – Javert could barely believe it, but for a moment, Valjean's hand touched his cheek, his thumb smoothing along his whiskers. 

"Let us rest for a moment – once we have made it through the next cave."

“Two caves,” Javert said after a moment of deliberation. Valjean's smile was weak, but it was a smile – and how strange that these had become familiar!

Valjean's hand dropped away from his face. “Look how dusty you are,” he murmured after a moment, as though he needed an excuse for his actions. Javert felt his heart thumping in his chest.

“And look how dusty you are,” he said, still breathless as he took hold of a strand of hair with his fingers. The moment stretched, Valjean so close that all he need do would be to lean forward a little to kiss him.

“Two caves,” he repeated after a moment, when he could finally make himself release Valjean.

That Valjean should desire his touch – how strange it was! Even now it was nearly impossible to believe that he had kissed Valjean – not gently, but with hunger and desperation – and that Valjean, instead of turning from him, had taken that step forward with greater courage than shown by Javert, who had hidden in the shadows for so long!

Javert continued to ponder this miracle as they went into the next cave. They still walked closely enough that he was rewarded by the warmth of Valjean's arm brushing his own with every step. There was no water in this cave either: no forgotten barrels or bottles, and no wells that he could see. But something was different. At first it was the smell of dusty soil that seemed to have grown stronger. Then Javert realized that the hills of dirt they now walked past were not dried old earth, but looked as though the soil had been brought in not too long ago.

Despite the tiredness, Valjean once more seemed to have drawn himself up. He had dimmed the lamp again, even though they would have already been spotted, had anyone been nearby.

They listened for a long moment, but there was nothing but silence. At length they moved on, more slowly now, taking each step with deliberation and keeping close to the wall. To their right, large shadows loomed – columns of stone that carried the roof of the cave, and once they passed another empty alcove. At last they made their way out into the corridor again, and here, too, they remained for a moment, still hidden in the entrance of the cave as they listened.

Again, everything was silent. Perhaps it was still night-time, and whoever worked on these underground fields was asleep. Or, more likely, the workers worked in shifts, yet had finished here and moved on to caves where the mushrooms were already waiting for the harvest. Javert knew little enough of such things. He wondered all of a sudden if Valjean knew, but when he turned towards him, a rough hand was clasped gently over his mouth.

Valjean's eyes were wide in the dim light of the lamp, and as Javert tried to follow his gaze, he heard it too: a sound somewhere down the corridor. A stone falling, perhaps – or a boot causing a stone to fall?

Javert could not say. His heart began to thump quickly in his chest as he imagined a group of Claquesous' men climbing down a tunnel to fall upon them with drawn pistols.

He swallowed, then suddenly realized that Valjean's hand was still clasped over his mouth. For one moment of insanity, he considered pressing a kiss to it, even as they stood here pressed together in the darkness, beset by danger – but then there was another sound, this time a soft, metallic clang. Valjean drew in a breath and released him, only to grip his shoulder instead.

Another heartbeat passed, then Valjean nodded towards the left. Javert followed him with his eyes. Valjean was right; the sounds seemed to come from the end of this corridor, and yet there was nothing but darkness before them. As far as they could see the corridor stretch, it seemed unassuming, exactly like the one they had followed for a while – and yet, had not Toussaint said that this one would lead them out? Was not this corridor a little larger? 

Javert drew in a breath. Was that fresh air? He could not say. His skin was clammy with sweat, and his throat ached for water, and all he could smell was the damp, moldy scent of the heaps of soil.

Valjean leaned forward until his lips brushed Javert's ear. Again Javert could just barely suppress a shiver. 

"Wait here with the light," Valjean murmured. "I will see who is down there. I will be back in a few minutes. I promise," he added after a moment, and Javert realized that his hand had clamped down around Valjean's wrist of its own volition, shackling Valjean to him with a grip strong enough that his bones and tendons showed white against the skin.

"You cannot!" Javert showed his teeth there in the darkness, terror suddenly gripping him the way it had not since they had pulled Valjean away from him. And was this not the same? Was not Valjean walking into danger – perhaps into death! – with open arms if he went off into the blackness that loomed before them like the maw of Hell itself?

"No," he said again, his hand shaking as it tightened even more around Valjean's wrist. He must be hurting him – that grip had to be painful, and had he not sworn himself that he would never touch Valjean with roughness again?

But this was different; this was worse than all his fears. Valjean leaving him here in the dark to step into danger... "No."

"Javert, please." Valjean hesitated, then slowly put down the lamp. Javert stared in terror at where his fingers enclosed Valjean's wrist like a vice, but still he could not let go.

He could hear Valjean's breathing in the gloom that surrounded them. There was a distant roar in his ears as his heart frantically pumped blood through his veins, and every beat of his heart made his chest shudder as though he, too, was a cave made of stone that would collapse should Valjean leave him behind.

Valjean did not speak, but all of a sudden a rough, sweaty hand pressed carefully against Javert's cheek, as though he were a spooked animal – or perhaps as though Valjean was still a little afraid of touching him. Perhaps both, Javert thought helplessly, barely able to bite back an agonized sound as he remembered how he had woken pressed against Valjean's side.

"Be reasonable," Valjean murmured. His voice was very soft, but even so Javert could hear the roughness in it. Despite the danger of their situation, he could not help but wonder whether it was caused by the threat facing them there in the darkness, or by the touch.

"If we both go, the chance to be discovered is higher. You know what I am. You know how often I have fled. I am used to this game. More used than you."

"I am--” Javert began, and Valjean shook his head, his hand still lingering there at Javert's cheek. 

"I used to be the prey in the darkness. You used to be the hunter. Let me do this now, Javert. I will return."

Again Javert thought of Valjean's eyes dull and lifeless, all fight gone from him as he surrendered to his fate, prepared even to let Claquesous beat him to death to save his daughter's life.

"Promise me," he began, his voice quivering. "Promise me you will not martyr yourself. Promise me you will not seek death and leave me here alone..."

His voice broke at the final words. He closed his eyes in mortification, praying to God that Valjean would think it cowardice, simple fear, because what it truly was was so much worse. 

The truth was that if Valjean died down here, away from him, somewhere in the darkness without his knowing, he would stand here and stare into the darkness, his ears straining, watching and waiting for days while his heart would tear itself apart and he would die here _never knowing_ \--

An agonized sound escaped him. It was quickly muffled when Valjean pulled him close, their lips meeting again there in the darkness. For a moment, Javert thought that he was crying when he felt the wetness on his cheeks – but then he realized that these were Valjean's tears. Valjean was weeping. For him?

His fingers tightened in Valjean's hair. For so long he had sought to learn gentleness for this man, who deserved to be touched with nothing but reverence ever again – but now he clutched at him with the despair of a drowning man once more. He could barely hold back the sounds that wanted to escape as he blindly pressed his mouth to Valjean's, unskilled and clumsy and filled by such despairing hunger that it seemed impossible to get enough to fill this hole in his chest. Even as he slid his tongue into Valjean's mouth it did not quell his fear, not even as he tasted the tender inside of his lips, curled his tongue against Valjean's own with greed and disbelief, still shocked and aroused by such intimate touch.

“No,” he whispered again when they finally parted, his lips aching from the kiss that had been more devouring claim than tender caress. “No, no, no. Do you hear me, Jean Valjean? I cannot. If you feel anything for me at all, if you are as merciful as I have always known you to be, you will know that we must go together, that I could not bear it to know you lost--”

Valjean was breathing heavily. In the dimmed light of their lamp, it was difficult to make out his expression, but he bowed his head until his forehead rested against Javert's, and the heat of his breath ghosted across Javert's skin like a benediction.

“Very well. So be it.” Valjean was noticeably shaken. “I cannot – I am not your jailer, Javert. I have no right to command you. We will do as you wish, but please, we do not know if--”

“I will be careful.” Javert swallowed and then bit back a laugh as he raised a shaky hand to his eyes. “Oh, dear God, what a fool you must think me. But I am not. Only – only when it’s you,” he added after a moment, trying to force a smile that instead turned into a grimace. “Lead the way. I trust you. I will be silent. I will do as you wish. I just cannot be left behind without you.”

Valjean did not protest, although even in the gloom Javert thought he could make out the fear on his face.

They moved very slowly once they had extinguished their lamp. Javert kept a hand on Valjean's shoulder. The darkness was oppressive. Now, with the danger before them, Javert once more conjured up images of men waiting for them, pistols at the ready – or perhaps a knife in the dark, a quick slash, and he would never hear more than that soft cry from Valjean...

Javert's hand trembled where it still held on to his own, unlit lamp. He could not become lost. Even if he released Valjean now, Valjean would wait if he called his name. Even if something happened, he had his own lamp and the tinderbox. He would not lose Valjean down here. He would not--

Again there was a sound. They froze for a moment as they listened again. It seemed closer now, and when they crept onward after a moment, they saw before them, on their left, an opening in the wall of the corridor. There was the barest hint of light coming from it. It was little more than an area of gloom in the deeper darkness. But Valjean now reached out for Javert's hand and pressed it.

 _Be careful,_ Javert understood. _Be silent._

He nodded instinctively and tightened his own fingers in reassurance. 

Once more they moved onward. Javert could hear the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. Were those still sounds before them, or was it the crunch of pebbles beneath their own feet?

He could not say. Sweat ran down his back, stung in the lashmarks. He tried to force himself to breathe evenly, but his heart was racing in his chest, and he could not stop imagining Valjean running into a drawn knife.

When Valjean stopped it took him by surprise. 

They were very close now. There was the opening in the corridor. A dim, gray gloom seemed to emanate from it. Javert waited as Valjean hesitated. He could hear no sound, but Valjean's powerful back shifted beneath where Javert's hand had come to rest, reassuring in its firmness. Javert supposed that Valjean must be looking around the wall into the corridor now. He bit his lip to keep from asking any questions, although his breathing still seemed to come too loud. Would they think that there was an animal lost in the darkness of the caves? Was that how they would end, a legend of two beasts haunting dark mushroom caves, groaning in the darkness to scare workmen?

At last Valjean's hand closed around his wrist, and he found himself being gently pulled forward into the opening.

After the long minutes in the darkness, it was unsettling to stand in the gloom that filled the corridor. He could now make out the powerful form of Valjean as a dark shape next to him. There was darkness behind them – and before them, the corridor ran, filled with a shadowed twilight that came from a spot somewhere in front of them, another opening through which the light of a lamp was spilling.

That was where the sounds must have come from, Javert thought, and flinched instinctively when he heard another creak in the darkness.

Valjean's hand tightened around his wrist in reassurance. Again Javert thought of the feeling of Valjean's hair against his cheek, the man's face transformed by pleasure as they had lain together that night. How strange, how sublime to know such a thing with him. Was it possible that such a wonder could be snuffed out in the darkness like a candle?

No, he told himself, and willed God to listen.


	16. A Bucket at the Bottom of a Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a gun is shot, and a bucket recovered.

There were men at work in the cave. Two men, focused on some large apparatus – a huge wooden wheel, rope, the flickering light of their lamps illuminating their dusty shirts and the rows of crates stacked behind them. When Javert followed the rope with his eyes, he saw it lead upward until it vanished into a hole in the roof. There was, he noted with rising excitement, also another ladder, strong and sturdy. Was this where men came down from the surface?

Again there was a metallic clang. This time, Javert realized that it came from far above them, echoing down through the hole. One of the men began to turn the wooden wheel with a grunt, and after a moment, a crate moved upwards, pulled by the rope into the opening above them while the man kept turning the wheel.

The crate was not empty. Javert recognized the musty smell of the mushrooms, and saw the white gleam of their flesh in the space between the crate's panels. If this was where they lifted the mushrooms to the surface, then that had to mean that a man could climb this ladder and find himself one step closer to the light of the sun!

How many ladders might there be? Javert shuddered as he imagined climbing upwards for hours, trapped beneath mountains of earth and stone.

No. It was no use to succumb to fear now. They had made it to the place Toussaint must have meant for them to find. If they wanted to escape, they would have to go up here.

Which first meant that they would have to make it past these men...

Could they overwhelm them? Javert could see no weapons, and Valjean was strong as four men even in his weakened state. They would have to, he thought as he watched the crate vanish through the dark hole in the roof far above them.

These men were not alone. Here, they might be unobserved – but if they made it up, there would be others waiting.

Valjean's hand came to rest on his arm. 

"Follow me," Valjean whispered into his ear while Javert felt his stomach drop. "Be calm. Be very calm now."

Javert's throat worked. What was Valjean planning? 

A moment later, light filled their small ante-room as Valjean rekindled their lamp. Javert's heart was beating fast with terror as Valjean smoothed his tattered shirt. What was he trying to do? Certainly their state gave them away as what they were: escapees from Claquesous' cells. Men on the run.

Javert took a deep breath, forcing away all doubt as Valjean gave him a small, frightened smile, and then he followed him into the light.

The men were still busy, and the creaking of the crate being pulled up was so loud that they did not realize they had company until Valjean shouted a greeting over the noise of the turning wheel.

The cave fell suddenly silent as the two men turned around. One had his hand in his pocket – a gun after all, Javert's mind supplied while his heart beat in terror. A gun, and what if they would shoot Valjean instantly, what if-- 

"What do you want?" The man at the wheel stared at them in suspicion. "Who are you?"

"We need to go up." Valjean ignored the gun the workman now pulled out of his pocket, and instead scowled up at the opening above them. "You did not see anyone? We're to search all exits now. Why are there only two of you? The watch is to be doubled at every ladder."

"Who the devil are you?" The man had not lowered his gun. "Who sent you?"

Javert could feel his pulse in his throat. Every beat of his heart echoed through him like the beat of a large drum. He could feel a drop of sweat run down his neck. Certainly these men could see his fear...

"Come now! We have no time for this! He's getting angrier by the minute that they have not been found. We need to get up, and you should have reinforcements here. Montparnasse is in charge of the search. See where your barking gets you with him!"

Again the two men remained motionless as they all stared at each other. Javert swallowed. It was obvious they were suspicious still. He could barely believe that Valjean had chosen such a way – and yet, what other option was there? Frantically, he tried to think of something that would reassure them, but he could not come up with anything. He, the police spy, long used to slumping in corners and listening to the sordid details of crime spun out around him, now could think of nothing but the guilty racing of his heart and the fear that they might shoot Valjean.

He should never have allowed Valjean to go in first. It should have been him in the front: Javert trying to convince these men to let them up, coming up with a way to reassure them--

“I have seen the plans. Gringoire should have been here with you an hour ago. I do not care if you sent the old dog off for wine, but if you do not let me up--”

At the mention of Gringoire the two men visibly relaxed.

“Gringoire?” The man at the wheel barked out a laugh, and then wiped at his brow in exhaustion. “Never arrived. Probably drunk in the kitchen. That lazy devil.”

“Go up if you want.” The other slowly lowered his gun, although he was still scowling at them in displeasure. 

"Your friend stays until Gringoire shows up."

A wave of cold dread raced through Javert, together with the breathless relief that at least Valjean would be safe. And down here, Javert could make certain that Valjean would make it up the ladder by distracting the men, if the need arose.

Valjean made a scornful sound. "And I'm to search dark tunnels on my own? With one of those runaway fellows to bash in my head when I turn a corner? He comes with me. You wait for Gringoire to sober up."

The man returned the gun to his pocket. Perhaps, if they were to startle them now...

"Come now!" Valjean gestured impatiently. "The next patrol will be here in half an hour. Take it up with them. If we don't get up there soon, we will all be in trouble."

The man stared at them for a long moment, then he turned and spit. "Up you go, then. Don't get yourself knocked on the head."

Javert kept his eyes on the men until they were out of reach of their hands, although he did not dare to breathe a sigh of relief until he and Valjean had climbed up into the dark hole, safely out of sight from any guns.

Valjean did not slow down. Javert followed with quiet admiration, climbing the rungs of the ladder and ignoring the ache of his back and the soreness of his muscles. How strange this was, he thought again, even as he was breathing hard. This was what he had once supposed Valjean to be: a cunning man, a sly liar, who could evade pursuit and remain forever free from the grasp of his pursuers. Oh, how it used to vex him!

And now, his throat was tight with worry for Valjean, and he had listened to Valjean's lies while seeing the sweat gleam on his brow and knowing that beneath his calm demeanor, Valjean was filled by the same terror that ran through Javert: worry not for his own life, but for another's well-being. No, there was nothing sly or cunning about Jean Valjean. He was no Montparnasse, no Claquesous. He was a man filled with fear who wanted to protect, not to hurt.

Had Valjean looked like this when Javert had hunted him through the streets of Paris all those years ago?

Javert remembered the triumph he had felt when he thought Jean Valjean trapped: the heat in his stomach, that elation and tightness of his chest that was so terribly similar to the breathlessness of kissing Jean Valjean that he could not help but be sickened by the recollection now. While he had stood there on the bridge with the soldiers behind him, gloating at the impending capture, had Valjean been pressing his back against a wall, his eyes wide with fear as he held the small body of a child in his arms?

Javert's arms ached and his fingers were numb from the effort of pulling himself up the rungs of the ladder by the time Valjean slowed. Javert was panting, but even through the sound of his gasps for air, he could now hear the creaking of wood, and voices above them. That had to be whoever was unloading the crates. Javert rested his head against his arm for a moment as he felt sweat trickle down his stinging back.

It could not be avoided. It was their best chance. They would have to trust luck again to make their way past these men. Or rather, he thought, darkly amused still to find himself in such a position, he would have to trust Jean Valjean to find a way to talk to these men and allow them to make their escape. 

It rankled a little to be the one to quietly follow when Javert had fervently sworn that he would find a way to keep Valjean safe. And yet, it was also true that Valjean had long years of experience of avoiding suspicion, and of moving among criminals and convicts.

Javert gritted his teeth as he pulled his aching body up another step. Light was starting to spill down into the tunnel now. 

Jean Valjean was a good man, he thought again, inexplicably annoyed by his thoughts that had placed him in the company of these men. No. No, Valjean was nothing like them. Javert knew men like these, lackeys of men like Claquesous. Valjean might have been forced to live his life in the shadows, but he was nothing like them.

Javert shook his head almost violently, as if to dislodge these troubling thoughts by force. One thing he knew, and that was that Jean Valjean was good. Valjean was the best man he had ever known. As for these men – who could say what had brought them here? Javert was not their judge. Perhaps they had reasons of their own. Perhaps they too, like Valjean, tried to keep a child fed. Javert could not say. But for now, all that mattered was that these men would hurt Valjean, were they to know the truth. This seemed a greater crime to him all of a sudden than Claquesous' entire illegal mushroom operation, which had given Henri such trouble with the guilds.

Another step up the ladder. The voices had fallen silent now. The men must have heard their approach. The light got brighter as something above them was pulled away – the crate, Javert thought, and then Valjean above him climbed out of the tunnel, and Javert followed. By now, his hands were aching so much that he could barely pull himself out of the hole onto the ground.

Javert was still panting for breath when he looked up and found himself surrounded by scowling faces. Five of them – no, six, he counted as he got up, painfully away of their torn clothes and of the pistol pointed at Valjean's chest.

Six of them, but in close quarters, and with the mushroom crates stacked alongside the hole, all Valjean would have to do was lift one and throw it at the man with the gun...

"What a welcome surprise," a voice said from the other side of the room. Javert felt blood pound at his temple as he slowly turned.

Montparnasse stared back at him with an expression of delight.

"How courteous of you to return to us, Inspector!" Montparnasse bared white teeth even while his velvet-clad arm raised the gun even higher, aiming it at Javert's chest. Javert in turn bared his teeth at him in the grin of the wolf.

"Stay right where you are." Montparnasse's smile widened as he looked Javert up and down. "Did you think you could escape?"

Javert's heart was still thundering. Sweat ran down his temple as he stared at the opening of the pistol. Was it aimed at his chest? It was. He had Montparnasse's attention. Valjean would have enough time to make his way out – to overwhelm the others, or perhaps go back down the hole. There were only two men waiting for him down there, after all. 

Javert licked his lips, thinking of Valjean. Would he take that chance if Javert gave it to him? He had to! 

_Please,_ he prayed, begging God for that one favor: to let Valjean save himself just this once. Then, he took a step forward, spreading his arms as he allowed his grin to widen to match Montparnasse's. Did he look as mad as he felt? That was good. Anything to distract Montparnasse from the man behind him.

"You cannot hold me, Montparnasse. You think you can do what Thénardier could not? Shoot! Shoot if you dare. Your gun will not--"

Montparnasse's hand did not tremble as he fired.

The shock of it was enough to make Javert flinch. A long moment passed during which he listened to the roar of blood in his ears. _No pain_ , his heart beat out steadily. _He did not hit... He did not hit._

"As I said. You missed." Javert's grin widened even further until all his teeth were bared in a grimace, his arms still spread to shield Valjean. He could not turn, but he prayed Valjean would understand. Let Valjean flee. Let him move now, cast himself down into the hole, bowl over the crates and the men with them--

"Bind them," Montparnasse said even as Javert shouted "No!" and jumped at the man who reached for his wrist – only to drop to his knees a second later. 

Something had struck his stomach hard and driven out all his breath. The pain made him dizzy, and for one moment he could not move, wheezing for air, his head reeling as his barely healed ribs protested the treatment. A heartbeat later, he was on the ground with his hands wrenched behind his back, a futile shout of rage on his lips as he found Valjean on the ground next to him.

"No," Javert gasped. The pain made tears stream from his eyes so that it was hard to see. "No, no, why did you not – you should have run! Valjean, you _fool_...!"

Then they were pulled apart, and Javert kept wheezing. His bruised ribs ached fiercely as he was pushed down another long, dusty corridor, coughing and gasping while his chest was on fire, refusing to allow him to draw a proper breath.

Was Valjean still with him? Javert thought he saw him once when he desperately tried to turn his head, but his eyes were swimming with tears, and his vision blacked out a few times when his ribs were jarred by the men forcing him to stumble along.

Then there were shouts and the clanging of iron. He could barely catch a breath before he found himself on the ground, the air driven from his lungs once more by the pain as his chest hit a stone.

When he managed to open his eyes at last, he saw that they were locked in another cell, and then he covered his face with his hands and wept in frustrated rage.

A minute later, he was gently pulled up into a sitting position until he was facing Valjean once more. Valjean was deathly pale, his skin gleaming with sweat. Tears had left tracks on the grime that covered his face, and still, through the rage and frustration and pain, Javert found himself clinging to him, his face pressed to Valjean's wet cheek, trying to hold back the sobs that wanted to break free from his aching ribs.

"Why. Why. You fool," he groaned at last, even as his arms tightened around Valjean. "You should have left. I gave you that moment. Why did you not use it!"

"Javert..." Valjean's voice trembled. Was he still weeping? Javert found he could not release him to look at him. Maybe he would never release Valjean again. Let them kill him like this, still clutching Valjean. Perhaps that was the only wish he had left now.

"How could I ever leave you like that? To take a bullet for me? Is that what you wanted?" Valjean gasped, but then his own arms tightened around Javert. "Mad fool. That was brave, Javert... but mad. We will leave together."

This time, a sob broke free from Javert's throat. "Or die together! Is that what you want?"

Valjean groaned again. Javert could feel his skin against his cheek, feverishly hot and damp with the tears that continued to flow. 

"We have come so far!" Javert shook his head as if to deny the truth of their situation. They had been free! They had been so close. So close! If only he had not let Valjean lead them to that ladder...

"We can do it again." Valjean's voice was unsteady, and when Javert drew back to snarl at him in disbelief, his breath stuck in his throat when he looked at where Valjean was kneeling before him in his torn, dirty shirt. 

Valjean was as pale as a ghost. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a new, large gash at his brow next to the old bruises from which blood was still dripping slowly. But also...

"Valjean..." 

In horror, Javert reached out to touch the shirt that had once been white. Now it was gray with dust and sweat – and there, at Valjean's side, a spot of dark liquid had begun to spread, and was spreading still.

Javert could not breathe. The shirt was wet as he touched it. He tried to swallow around the terror that suddenly filled his throat, but found that he could not.

Blood. The shirt was wet with blood, and more welled up and soaked into the fabric as he watched.

"He did not miss," he said at last, his hand trembling so much that he could not get a grip on the shirt. "Oh, dear God... He shot you."

He exhaled, and the air escaped in another sob. Still trembling, his fingers finally succeeded in pushing the shirt up, and there it was: a wound from which even as he looked, new blood was welling up incessantly. It trickled down Valjean's side, and Javert now finally realized that his body was still heaving not from exhaustion, but pain.

"He shot you," he repeated, his mind reeling, and then his eyes widened."Valjean!"

"It is not so bad," Valjean said, even as Javert watched him grimace and press blood-stained fingers to his side. 

Javert opened his mouth, but this time, no sound escaped. Instead, he leaned forward, dabbing at the blood with his own sleeve to get a better look at the wound while Valjean groaned again, muscles contracting as Javert touched him as gently as he could.

"You took that bullet. You – I meant for him to shoot me! So you could flee!" Javert tried to force back the laughter that bubbled up. Had he truly thought that he, Javert, would be allowed to protect Jean Valjean? But what other choice had there been in that heartbeat when Montparnasse had aimed the gun at him?

"I did not – mean to," Valjean said, breathing heavily as Javert looked at the wound. "I am not – I am no martyr, Javert. He simply missed you, and I stood behind you. Nothing more."

Javert laughed again, a low, despairing sound as he at last released Valjean. "So you say! And yet, at that moment – tell me: did you demand of God to let him shoot _you_ instead of me?"

Valjean's silence was answer enough. Javert clenched his jaw at the realization that he had been right.

"You cannot chide me for my prayers." Valjean's voice was weak, but now there was a hint of humor in it. "Or chide God for sending us a boy who cannot aim."

"Well! I am blaming you regardless. Both of you." With irritation, Javert looked at the dark blood that now stained his sleeve.

"This will not do." His nostrils flared with disgust at both the state they were in and all the events that had led them to this place. To be so close, and yet to fail...!

"There is water back there," Valjean said. His words were shaky, but the hand that came to cover Javert's was surprisingly strong. "I would... appreciate a drink. If you do not mind."

"Forgive me." Suddenly abashed, Javert released the shirt to Valjean's grip. 

"I already did," Valjean said very softly. 

Javert sat up straight. The words seemed to touch some part deep within him with great tenderness, as though a gentle hand had been laid on that old sore in his chest and at last soothed away the memory of pain. 

Had he once thought this man's forgiveness too easily won, something that should be forever out of his reach?

That had been in those days when he had hidden in shadows and slunk after Valjean like an abandoned mutt, thinking Valjean a saint, an angel, as unfathomable as that great superior he had meant to reject.

Now, that image was nearly gone. When he looked at Valjean, he saw only the lines of anguish and remembered the warmth of his body, and how strange and overwhelming it had been to rest by his side and feel the proof that Valjean's body, too, could be stirred by their closeness.

Valjean was saint no longer. And yet, he was closer to God than any man Javert had ever known. Javert had thought it impossible once that what part he had played in Valjean's suffering could be truly forgiven – but now that they had suffered together, now that Valjean had reached out for him with tears in his eyes, had come into his arms even as his body bled from a bullet he had taken for Javert...

Perhaps it was possible to be forgiven. Perhaps it was possible not only to love Valjean, but to prove himself worthy of being loved in return.

He almost wanted to laugh again. Chances were that they would be shot or whipped to death as soon as Claquesous arrived. But for what precious minutes remained, perhaps Javert could indeed know himself forgiven, and seek to return the grace he had been shown.

His mind still reeled at this new revelation as he turned to retrieve the water Valjean had asked for. 

At the back of the cell, there was another well, much like the one in the cave where they had been held before. How far they had come? It seemed to Javert that they had walked for a long time, and gone up and down for a day and a night – but in the end, had they not returned to the place from where they had heard the sounds in the beginning? Perhaps they had been dragged back to a cell close to where they had come from.

Javert could not even say what hope there was to gain from the thought. They had made it out once, but certainly they would not be so lucky twice. And yet... Toussaint had found them here before, and might find them again. 

Unless they had posted men in the tunnels now...

Javert snarled at his reflection in the stale water that remained in the pail next to the well. He looked not unlike those beastly men he had once guarded: bloodshot eyes filled with madness, a face streaked by blood and dirt, scratches and bruises blossoming on his skin. 

Had he encountered himself in the streets, he knew what his first thought would have been. And how fitting that Claquesous had had the same thoughts. Irons and the whip for him. Had fate decreed that Javert would end his life in the place he had tried to dissociate himself from for so long? And what was there left in Javert now but the instinct to survive? 

The instinct to protect, he realized after a moment, his chest aching with more than the bruising of his ribs. The instinct to give his life for a man he revered and had come to love.

How strange to learn in such a way how wrong all of his old preconceptions had been.

Javert had to move down into the hole to get to the water. There was a ledge carved into the stone that led down to the bottom, and the rope that held the old bucket had become entangled. These wells must have been precious enough when Claquesous' men were taking over the maze of tunnels and quarries and caves – and now, instead of locking people out from the water, the bars served to detain Claquesous' prisoners.

At least they would not die of thirst before Claquesous got to them, Javert thought once the rope was freed and he had managed to pull up fresh water. He scooped it up in his hands and moved carefully back to Valjean. It stirred something within him again to see Valjean gratefully bend his head to drink from his cupped palms. There was something familiar about the gesture – an animal drinking from its master's hands, perhaps, and that seemed wrong and disrespectful. But there was also such trust in it that Javert's heart expanded until he was overwhelmed and breathless from the sight of Valjean's bared nape and the gentle touch of his lips. 

When Valjean raised his head at last, his eyes were clear and calm, as though he had seen nothing wrong in the act. "Thank you," he said, and Javert reached out to wipe some of the sweat and blood from his brow with his damp hand.

"Lie down. You are hurt. The bullet only grazed you, but it has to hurt, and you are still bleeding."

"It is nothing," Valjean said, but then, at Javert's look, he acquiesced, stretching out on the floor while Javert returned to the well once more. This time, Javert drank deeply, pouring some of the cold water over his dusty neck and face as well, and then pulled off his shirt. It was already torn in places, and now he tore off a sleeve and moistened it before he returned. Valjean watched with a frown but did not protest or even give voice to his pain when very gently, Javert began to wipe away some of the blood that had run from the wound. 

It was still bleeding when he finished to clean Valjean as well as he could, although Javert was relieved to see that he had indeed been right. The bullet had only grazed Valjean's left rib cage, and rather than puncturing his chest – or his heart, Javert thought, unable to breathe for a moment – the only damage it had wrought was a bloody gouge in his flesh that bled copiously, but which should knit well enough in time.

If they had time. Javert's brow furrowed as he used what remained of his shirt to gently press it to Valjean's side. Valjean still looked at him, unwavering, although drops of cold sweat had appeared on his forehead once more.

"Here, hold this in place. You should drink some more," Javert murmured. Then, because at this moment everything seemed lost, he leaned forward and touched his lips to Valjean's brow. It was impossible to even contemplate a world without Jean Valjean, his anchor and compass.

"I would rather it had been me to take it for you." Javert's voice shook, but how much time was there left now to tell Valjean these things? "But both of us live. That is a miracle already. That is all I ask for. To stand with you in the sunlight again one day, and know you content."

Valjean raised his eyes to him and licked his lips.

"Javert," he began, his voice hesitant, and Javert knew he could not bear to hear Valjean deny his own right to have such a thing. So instead, he did what would have been unthinkable mere days ago, and what still felt nearly impossible, and brushed his lips against Valjean's mouth. Valjean's lips burned with heat against his own, and Javert could feel the swell of them at one corner where the men must have hit him.

"Hush. Rest. And hold that cloth in place until the bleeding stops," Javert said when he drew back. He was relieved to see Valjean give him a tired, overwhelmed nod at last before he carefully stretched out on the rough ground. One hand held the shirt against the hole the bullet had left, but now the other came to touch his lips in confused awe.

Javert had to swallow against the emotions rising in him. This was not the time, he told himself. But what if this was their last moment, their last hour together?

Tell him how dear he is to you, a voice within him said. 

_He already knows._ Once more, Javert thought of that look Valjean had given him. 

Valjean had forgiven him. Javert was well and truly forgiven, and Valjean in turn knew how very cherished he was, whether he chose to believe it deserved or not.

If he were to die today, Javert realized with a new serenity, perhaps this time he could calmly step before that superior whose workings he had never been able to understand, and speak no words of resignation. Javert had given his life into a different hand, a hand both rougher and gentler, and knew his soul held safely in that grasp for all eternity.

To die now would not be so bad. No secrets would die with him. No regrets.

And yet, he thought as he knelt down by the well to pull up the old pail by the rope, a death with a light conscience was one thing. The death of Jean Valjean was quite another thing, now that he had experienced how Valjean's soul illuminated all those he regarded. Javert would die without regrets – but he would fight until his dying breath. He would not let them have Jean Valjean.

The bucket was heavy with water. The rope was old and frayed, and Javert realized too late that the creaking sound he had heard was the rope fraying even more somewhere below him. When the rope suddenly grew light in his hand, it was already too late, and a moment later he heard the dull splash of the bucket dropping into the water below.

He cursed as he pulled up the rope, then gave Valjean a guilty look when he saw that he had stirred with instinctive fear. "No, no – please. Rest. It is nothing," Javert said, and then took a deep breath, feeling the ache of his back and the burning of his muscles and the dull exhaustion that had already sapped most of his strength.

"I will fetch the bucket. I'm thirsty, and it will be good to wash."

He scowled at the rim of the well. It was not impossible. Not even truly dangerous, he thought; there was the ledge that led down, and he could take the rope with him to hold on to. But he was weary to his bones and in pain. All he wanted was to stretch out and weep at the cruel fate that had snatched freedom from their grasp when they had been so close – or maybe to pull Valjean close and spend their final hour losing himself in the vulnerable curve of his mouth and the sweat on his skin.

"Can you hold the rope? I know you are hurt, but I do not trust it. I will try not to use it when I go down, but just in case, I might need something to hold on to."

Valjean gave him a careful look, his eyes clear despite the lines of agony around his mouth, and then nodded slowly. He kept the shirt pressed to his side as he moved to his knees, and before he could protest the gesture, Javert helped him up. Valjean did not say a word as Javert led him towards the well. 

That in itself was a miracle, and Javert was glad that he was spared Valjean's denials of pain. After all, Javert had seen the wound with his own eyes, and had seen too how exhausted Valjean was, how pain and weakness had made him tremble. He wanted – _this_ , he thought, feeling Valjean lean gratefully against him for a heartbeat as he helped him settle down next to the well. More than declarations of love or forgiveness, he wanted this simple thing: to have what help and comfort Javert could give accepted.

"I'm not certain that rope will hold your weight." Valjean drew it through his free hand, and Javert gave it a rueful look. 

"In truth, neither am I. But if I slip, a moment or two might be all I need to find my footing. In the worst case, I will fall into the well and have to make my way back up to drip all over you."

Valjean tried to give him a small smile, but his brow was still furrowed and his eyes filled with distress. "Very well. Be careful," he said, and Javert suppressed the urge to bend down and press his lips to Valjean's just because he could. 

The well was deeper than it had seemed, or so Javert thought once he had made his way down far enough that he could no longer see Valjean's worried face. It was gloomy down at the bottom, although he could see the water glimmer below him, still and dark. It was not too difficult to make his way down the ledge. Whoever had cut this well into the stone had also created small footholds, and Javert could descend slowly but carefully, the rope a comforting presence next to him.

"Javert?" Valjean once called out anxiously. Javert felt relief and gratitude almost like a stab in his heart, so that he had to press a hand against the wall to rest for a moment.

"I am well. Half-way down," he called back up even as he shook his head at himself. Here he was: hurting, dirty, in danger, halfway down a dark well, and his heart still expanded in his chest with joy at the sound of his name on Valjean's lips. 

Cautiously, he moved further down the ledge. Again he made his way around the well. This time, he thought he saw a dark shadow on the water. That had to be the bucket, certainly. 

Sweat was once again running down his nape. His legs ached, and all he could think about was that moment of bliss when he had woken in Valjean's embrace. Would he ever again be granted such contentment?

"Almost there!" Javert called out as he made his way past the frayed end of the rope. He was standing on rough and uneven rock. The water was close now; if he fell, he would emerge cold and wet, but unharmed. He gritted his teeth and forced himself slowly onward, using his hands and feet to feel for the way, for here at the bottom of the well, almost no light remained.

Below him, he could see the dark shape of the bucket floating on the water. Javert moved to his knees when the ledge ended, holding on to the wall with one hand. Then he took a deep breath and reached out with the other.

His fingers touched wet wood – and then the bucket bobbed and slipped out of his grasp. Even as he cursed he frowned, for the bucket had not moved forward. It had moved back against the walls of the well, where the stone should have stopped it – and yet, even as he reached for it again, blindly searching the cold water with his hand, he could not feel the wood where it was supposed to be. 

Neither could he feel stone.

He frowned and leaned further forward. There was--

"Javert?" Valjean called again, and Javert shook his head in grim concentration even though Valjean could not see it.

He stretched out on his stomach, cautiously moving until his chest hung past the stone, his arms free to explore in the darkness.

There was water. And now, there was the bucket, this time skidding back towards the middle of the well when he touched it, where he would be able to easily retrieve it.

Javert ignored the bucket. He extended his arm further back.

Where there should be stone, there was none. There was only water. Water, and – his fingers encountered an arch in the rock.

The water was colder here. He exhaled. That was – a current. Almost a current. The smallest suggestion of moving water, but there it was. 

There was an opening in the stone right below him.


	17. A Band Both Tender and Unbreakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert find new hope at the bottom of a well, and Valjean’s past once more proves useful.

Javert was panting by the time he finally dragged himself out of the well again, his knees aching and his fingertips bleeding. Valjean awaited him, his face pale and worried, and Javert did not even have enough breath left to protest when Valjean let go of the blood-stained shirt to instead help Javert back up into the cave.

“You've been down there for a long time. What happened?” he asked, and then exhaled when he saw Javert's hands.

“It is nothing,” Javert said, and then laughed, the sound hoarse and helpless as he remembered too late how Valjean had given him the same answer not too long ago. What a mess they both were.

But Valjean had not even listened to him. Javert's hands were gently cradled in Valjean's as he looked at the damage, and Javert, as uncomfortable as he felt at such close attention to what were nothing more than inconsequential scratches, could not bring himself to mind when Valjean's fingers teased his hands open with near unbearable gentleness.

“I slipped once and had to scramble for a hold. That is all,” Javert said. He spoke softly and watched Valjean's head bent over his hands, thinking not of the pain, which was bearable, but of how ridiculous it would be if Valjean kissed his fingers, and of how much he wanted it.

“You did not say anything,” Valjean said at last, drawing back. Javert sighed, although his hands remained clasped in Valjean's.

“It happened so quickly, and there was no need. I found a new hold; I was in no danger.”

Valjean studied him thoughtfully, but did not speak. Javert felt the buzz of excitement beneath his skin, and the fear that it would lead to nothing, that he would give Valjean hope when there might be none.

He swallowed. “You are a good swimmer,” he said. Valjean, whose eyebrows rose a little at that sudden declaration, nodded.

“Your escape from the ship Orion... I read about it.” Javert tried to smile; all he managed was a grimace at the pain of bringing up a time when Valjean had been nothing to him, when he had found a grim satisfaction in the thought that Jean Valjean was dead. “I told myself that I am a fool. But you were not dead. You swam. That was how you escaped?”

“It was,” Valjean said very calmly, although there was the lightest tremor in his voice. Javert grimaced again at the thought that Valjean might think he was being questioned.

“Good.” 

Javert released a deep sigh. Valjean's fingers tightened momentarily around his wrists. Then his hands were released, and he watched sheepishly how Valjean's hand circled his own wrist, the thumb rubbing unconsciously against the band of scar tissue.

 _I am a fool_ , he thought again, but did not say it. What he did say was: “I hope you still remember how to swim. I think there is a way out. That well — there's a tunnel beneath the water. I could feel a current.”

“A tunnel? How wide is it?” Valjean's hand dropped away as he sat up straight. “Could you see where it leads? How long it is?”

Javert shook his head. “I would have had to go into the water, and I did not want you to worry. I could not see anything. But I could feel it. At the bottom, there is an opening beneath the ledge. The water there was colder. I could feel it move. It might be nothing, but—”

“But it might also be our only chance.” Valjean took a deep breath, then moved to join Javert at the well. Javert eyed the wound. It had ceased to bleed, but certainly the dangerous descent to the bottom of the well would open it again.

He supposed the wound would not matter if they were to die here. Even so, it made him ache to see Valjean force his exhausted body to perform new feats of strength while still hurt by the whip and now also by the gun.

“I will go down first,” Valjean said as he climbed over the ledge. “You will wait. If something happens, I will call out, and you have the rope to—”

“No.” Javert shook his head even as he swung his legs into the well once more to follow Valjean. “You will go first and I will be right behind you. If something happens, I will be there.”

Valjean hesitated, but then he gave a weary nod and began the slow climb down. 

How long until Claquesous would arrive, Javert wondered even as he followed him. Were they indeed close to where they had been held before? It would not be far in that case. Or perhaps Claquesous was busy elsewhere. Perhaps, somewhere far above them, the sun was shining and Claquesous was yet posing as an honest owner of a business, a man beginning to make his fortune with his trade of mushrooms.

Or perhaps the door to their cell would open in a minute, and they would be shot down here in the well.

Javert listened, his heart pounding in his ears as they made their way down. But nothing happened. No one cried out, and at last they were at the bottom, huddling together on that final ledge of stone above the gloomy water below.

Javert shuddered, recalling the dark Seine, and how senselessly he had cast himself into it. Would now the water seek to reclaim the life it had been forced to yield up?

Valjean was stretched out on his stomach just as Javert had been before, his hand searching for the opening below them. Javert's eyes were riveted to his side. The wound had opened again, and a trickle of blood ran down his skin, but Valjean did not make a sound.

“Wait here,” he said after a moment, and then slid into the water so quickly that he was already gone before Javert could answer.

The water was dark, and after a moment, the circles that spread out from where Valjean had vanished calmed again, and then Javert was alone at the bottom of the well, his heart thundering in his chest as he watched the water reflect what little light still reached down here. 

What if there was no opening? 

He stared at the blackness that had swallowed Valjean. What if Valjean got stuck? What if some beast was hiding in that hole to bite him? What if there was indeed an opening, and a tunnel, and Valjean dove into it and swam and swam, and never resurfaced until at last he would run out of air and it was too late to turn back, and he would press his hands against the stone and open his mouth in panic and—

Cold water hit his face as Valjean came up, gasping for breath, his hair slicked over his eyes. He clung to the ledge with one hand and wiped impatiently at his face with the other.

“You are right. It's a tunnel,” he said after a moment, breathing heavily. Javert reached out, still shaken by the thought of Valjean locked into a water-filled tunnel, and pressed his mouth to his, not even to kiss, just to breathe against him as he closed his eyes to hide his relief.

Valjean's lips were cold from the water, and his skin wet against Javert's, but right now, all that mattered was that Valjean had safely returned.

After a moment, Valjean released a weary huff of air against his lips, and Javert smoothed back his hair with trembling fingers.

“Javert,” Valjean murmured as he drew back a little. “How well do you swim?”

Javert swallowed. “I have not — I cannot tell you.” He bit back a despairing laugh. “As a child, well enough. In Montreuil, the river was cheaper than to have to ask my landlady to heat me water.”

“And since then?”

Javert was silent. After a while, he said, “I can swim. But if you ask me if I can dive through long, secret tunnels — Valjean, I will do it, of course I will, but I fear I will be a burden to you. You must promise me you will not turn back if I should—”

Valjean's hand grasped his arm, and he found himself pulled back into the kiss until he was moaning against Valjean's cold lips, sliding his own tongue inside to search out the heat of his mouth until Valjean began to gasp and he was nearly pulled off the ledge and into the water as well.

“Do not even say it,” Valjean said, and where before he had been pale with pain, had touched Javert with hands trembling with wonder, his voice was stern now and his grip on Javert's arm firm. “Do not think it. You who stood between myself and a gun, and laughed at the man holding it...”

“Valjean...” Overwhelmed, Javert could only press his hands to Valjean's wet face, frame it and then kiss it hungrily all over again, the devouring wolf in him making him bite at Valjean's mouth until it won him a groan, and then licked the swollen lips soothingly.

“I will go with you. It will be as you say. I will follow, anywhere, no matter what. I won't be a burden,” he breathed, forcing himself not to think of the dark water or the suffocating tunnels that lay ahead.

“You asked me to trust you. Now I ask for your trust in turn.” Valjean's voice was earnest, his fingers trembling where they dug into Javert's skin, and all Javert could do was steal another kiss, clumsily breathe his terror and elation into Valjean's mouth and grasp at the sensation of his touch to remind himself that this was real. All of this was real: this band between them that was no leash, no chain as he had feared there upon the parapet, but something gentler, more tender, and all the more unbreakable for it. 

“I trust you,” he said against Valjean's lips. In his heart he begged once more for God to let Valjean live — and to let Javert live too, for he knew Jean Valjean well enough now that he could not imagine the man abandon him or ever forgive himself should he fail to save Javert as he had saved so many others.

 _Do not let me be the reason this man weeps alone and forgotten_ he begged silently. Then he swallowed his terror and leaned his forehead against Valjean's, and slipped into the water next to him.

The water was cold, but it was not the bitter cold of streams in winter or mountain lakes. Javert was almost surprised that his limbs did not freeze and his teeth did not chatter — but then, the air in these old caves and quarries had been warm enough while they had been forced to remain here. Perhaps that was one reason why Claquesous had settled on such an unlikely place for his endeavor, and why the mushrooms flourished.

Valjean raised a wet hand to his arm once more. Javert wondered how the bullet wound fared in the water, but did not ask. It was not lethal, although it would need salves and bandages and a doctor. But he had seen this man whipped bloody in Toulon. He had seen him carry another from the sewers. Valjean could bear this too, he did not doubt it. It simply made his heart ache to see Valjean force himself onward with no consideration for his own pain and weariness.

_Let me live so I can show him how cherished he is._

“Javert,” Valjean murmured and pulled him close. In the water, their chests slid against each other. The warmth of his skin was comforting, even as Javert tried not to think about the empty darkness beneath their feet. How deep might this well be? Where did it go?

“Listen to me now. I swam into the tunnel for as far as I could while I still had enough air to return. You are right. There is a current; it got stronger the deeper in I went. It was dark at first. Very dark. I could see nothing. I had to use my hands to make sure I was still going forward. You might panic; you might forget where up and down is. Do not think. Do not listen to what your mind tells you. Think not of up and down. Think only of me. Keep a hand on me. Follow me. Do not let go, not ever. Do you understand?”

Javert shivered a little at the urgency in Valjean's voice. The words he spoke awoke an old terror in him. The dark waters of the Seine swallowing him; that maw closing around him, the maelstrom drawing him under and tossing him around like a doll — but also, that angel who had come to grasp his hand. The strong body that had grabbed him and pulled him back towards the light with certainty.

“Where you go, I follow.” _To death, or to life._ Javert did not speak that part, but he leaned forward to press his lips to Valjean's mouth, the kiss chaste and sweet for what it was.

Had he ever spoken a more powerful vow? He had thrown his resignation at God once. Had turned in contempt from the grace offered by Jean Valjean. Now he took a deep breath and released the stone wall of the well, floating in the water, putting his soul into the hand of Jean Valjean and his body into the hand of God. 

“I saw light at the end,” Valjean said softly. “I believe we can make it to where it came from.”

“I will follow to your light.” Javert looked at Valjean. The darkness was too deep to see Valjean's face, but that new, raw heart within Javert that had ached for so long, tormenting him with the pain of its growth, had calmed now, as if at last it had found its purpose.

There was no more doubt now. There was fear — but no doubt.

“Lead the way.”

Under water, what little light had found its way down into the well vanished as soon as Javert submerged himself. He listened to his heartbeat, tried to calm himself, held one hand against the comforting stability of the stone and one against Valjean’s shoulder.

It would be well. He could do this, for Valjean. Had he not been hard on himself all of his life? Had he not for long decades forced his body to follow the commands of his mind? Never had he tested himself in such a way — but for Valjean, he could do it. He would swim. He would follow. He would not allow fear and terror to choke his heart. His heart was held safely in the palm of Jean Valjean , and there it would remain, no matter what might await him down there in the darkness.

He resurfaced, pushed the wet hair out of his face, and drew a deep breath. For how long could he make it without air?

No, it was too late to worry about such things. He drew another deep, deliberate breath, and smiled at Valjean as he came up as well. _I am yours_ , he thought and wished he could say it. But Jean Valjean had never wanted to own his soul. _My heart is yours._ Perhaps that was a thing that could be said when they were resting in the darkness, their skin sticking together with their sweat, his mouth full with the taste of Valjean. But what could be said here?

“I am glad you are my friend,” he said, and thought that he saw Valjean's eyes widen a little. “I am glad you are here with me. Thank you.”

Valjean's breath was shaky. He came a little closer, and Javert wondered for one breathless moment whether there would be another kiss. But Valjean just looked at him, as much as was possible in the gloom down here, and then pressed a calloused hand to his face, his thumb stroking along a brow, the grooves above his nose, the wrinkles of his forehead with slow, firm deliberation.

“I am glad you are here with me,” Valjean said, and then, “Once this is over, once we are free — I would like to take you to the garden. Kiss you there. If... if that is what you want.”

Javert laughed a little hoarsely. “You need not bribe me to follow you.” Still — how sweet it was to hear Valjean speak such things! Perhaps it was indeed more than just two old, frightened men clutching at each other for comfort in the darkness. Perhaps this thing between them could grow and flourish even in the light of the sun.

“Kiss me, no matter where. In a garden. My own room. Behind your house. Any place will be paradise to me.”

“All those places then,” Valjean said, and then he took another deep breath, and Javert knew that this was it.

“I am ready.” Javert thought again of Valjean's stifled gasps against his mouth, and of waking in his embrace. There were things worth living for. Such things — grander and more mysterious than anything he had ever known.

Valjean nodded. His hand was still on Javert's arm, firm and reassuring. They both breathed deeply, as deeply as they could — and then Valjean sank into the water and dove into where the tunnel opened beneath the narrow ledge that had led them down into the well, and Javert followed without another thought.

His eyes were open, but everything was dark down here. He could not make out the slightest thing. He could feel the disturbance of the water from the push of Valjean's strong thighs, and followed him, his fingers stretched out to glide along the tunnel's walls for a moment to reassure himself that he would not swim straight into stone.

The tunnel was narrow. He did not dare to hold onto Valjean for fear that he would slow him down, or that Valjean might kick him by accident. But there was yet enough air in his lungs, and he knew that he was not alone, and so he propelled himself onward, forcing his body to follow Valjean with stroke after stroke despite the ache and burn of his already weary muscles.

Soon there would be a light, he told himself. How long had Valjean been gone? Not that long. Valjean had seen the light and had had air enough left to return. There was nothing to fear.

Another stroke, and another. Everything was dark. He was floating in black ink with no company but the roar of his pulse in his ears. Soon he would need to breathe, he thought, and then pushed that niggling panic to the back of his mind.

Valjean was in front of him. Valjean's powerful body was pushing forward through the water. All he had to do was follow. Air, light — none of that mattered.

Follow Valjean. Follow Valjean. _Follow Valjean..._

He needed to breathe. His lungs ached. His chest was heavy; his head was light. He needed to  breathe, and still he pushed himself onward, relentless, thinking _Valjean_ to counter the roar of blood in his ears that said _breathe, breathe, breathe_.

Everything was black. Why was everything still black? Where was the light? Valjean had promised him light. Where was Valjean? 

Javert reached out in panic, feeling for the walls of the tunnel. Perhaps he was lost. Perhaps he had lost Valjean already. Perhaps he had been diving in the wrong direction; perhaps he had swum away from the light — where had he been going? Everything was dark; there was no air, no air, only water and stone weighing down his chest and he would die down here, he would die, he would drown squashed by the weight of the stone above him and—

A hand grabbed his arm. He found himself pulled forward. _Valjean,_ a part of him whispered, and his legs, which still obeyed that old command of _follow_ , were still moving.

The roar in his head was deafening. His chest ached for air so badly that he thought it would be a relief to open his mouth and breathe in the water to quell this terrible pain in him, and still something within him said _Valjean_ and he clung to him.

_Valjean._

He could not keep his eyes open anymore. He needed to breathe. He needed...

There was light, somewhere. He could see the shape of Valjean's head now. The strong arms that held him safe. If this was death, perhaps Valjean had drawn him straight past the gates of Saint Peter...

There was a terrible ringing in his ears. His chest hurt. The pain was familiar; the band of iron had returned to tighten around his ribs until he groaned at the pain, and then he coughed and coughed and gasped for air while his lungs protested in agony.

Water trickled from his mouth. He coughed again, breathed again — and then he opened his eyes. There was air. 

Valjean was staring at him, pale as a ghost and his eyes full of terror, so that Javert raised a shaking hand to touch his cheek even as he had to cough again.

“Am I dead,” he said, and suddenly, incongruously, Valjean was laughing and burying his face against his neck, and Javert, who was still not certain if this was Heaven, stroked his hair while Valjean's laughter turned to tears.

“Valjean,” he murmured after a long moment had passed, and after he had become aware that their heads were above the water, Valjean holding him upright and pressed against cold stone.

“You fool,” Valjean gasped, and then Valjean's mouth was on him, and his lips were wet and salty.

“You live. _We_ live,” Javert said at last, and then he groaned again at the way his chest still ached, and at how impossible it seemed to release Valjean, who had saved him yet again.

How often had this man pulled him into the light? Would he ever be able to repay this debt?

“We made it.” The words were a whisper against his lips, and when Javert stroked his face again with trembling fingers he felt that Valjean was shaking too, the lines on his face deep and pronounced.

“For now,” Valjean added after a moment. “We cannot be far. There is light above; if there are lit lamps nearby there must be people, too.”

“We need to leave. Now.” Javert looked up. The ledge that led down to where they were floating seemed even narrower than the one they had descended — but whoever had built this well had been thoughtful enough to add an iron rail. 

Leaving the well would be no hardship. Leaving these caves unobserved, on the other hand...

“Come,” he said and stretched out his hand, thinking once more of the bullet Valjean had taken for him. If there was one wish God could grant him, it would be to lay Valjean down in a bed today and care for his wound.

His heart was thudding fearfully in his chest when they climbed as silently out of the well as they could manage. There was no one to be seen. The cave they found themselves in seemed similar to the one they had been locked in for days now, although the door stood open. Javert shivered as he wondered how far they had come — maybe just four cells over, men were currently discovering their escape?

But no; they had swum for endless, agonizing minutes. They must be far enough that they might not be immediately discovered in the corridor.

Valjean took his hand. His skin was wet and cold, and Javert felt him shivering. Each of them took one of the lamps that lined the corridor, and then they made their way onward, turning to their left to bring as much distance between them and their former jail as was possible. 

They listened for sounds as they moved. They could hear nothing — no shouts, no feet running after them. But it might happen any moment, Javert told himself, looking around with barely bridled panic. This corridor was too obvious. Any moment someone could stumble upon them; any moment—

Valjean pulled on his arm and nodded at an opening that seemed strangely familiar. Beyond, there was darkness, and when they stepped into the entrance with their lamps, their light spilled onto regular rows of earth once more. Were they back where they had started? Would they go forward only to be trapped by the same exit once again? Or had they become lost in a maze of mushroom caves that seemed to sprawl out endlessly, with little variation?

“Quickly now. We cannot stay so close to where they will search for us.” Valjean spoke very softly, and even so Javert shuddered at the way the words seemed to echo in the darkness that stretched out where the light of their lamps ended.

“Search for another ladder,” Javert murmured even as he followed Valjean into the cave. “We know there are other tunnels. We need to take the first—”

Somewhere behind them, there was a metallic clang, and then, somewhere in the distance, the sound of voices.

“Now!” he said, eyes wide as he looked around in panic, and they ran, keeping as close to the walls of the cave as they could, searching in desperation for another ladder, a rope, anything that would allow them to escape the eyes of their pursuers.

There were no ladders. They passed another alcove that led nowhere, and then ran through another tunnel into large cave, where the white bulbs of mushrooms reflected the lights of their lamps on the orderly rows of soil.

“Javert,” Valjean said almost pleadingly as they ran, and Javert did not know how to respond. He was running as fast as he could while keeping an eye on the wall of the cave, but there was no way out, no ladder, no—

“Wait!” He pulled hard on Valjean's arm and then pointed his lamp at the wall opposite them. There, on the other side of the cave, after the long lines of growing mushrooms, a ledge ran along a part of the wall — and on that small outcropping of stone, there was an opening of darkness. Certainly that had to be another tunnel that would let them escape, or that might at least allow them to hide from the eyes of their pursuers for a while. 

“Come on now!”

“There's no ladder,” Valjean gasped even as he followed when Javert abruptly changed the direction of their flight. “How will we—”

“We'll climb. Quickly now!”

Javert ground his teeth when he stared at the wall. There must have been a ladder at some point — the wall was rough here, but sloped too steeply as it came down to meet the ground to allow a man to climb it easily.

But it could be climbed. There were footholds, little indentations, stones that stuck out. How many prisoners had he known to make their escape past such walls?

He looked at Valjean. He thought of the walls of Toulon.

“I can do it,” he said, although his limbs ached with tiredness, and he had never attempted such a thing before. “You go first. Quick now!”

Valjean stared at him, panting for breath, something in his face shifting — but then there were the sounds of feet again, and shouts as a group of men must have reached the first cave, and Valjean turned towards the wall. With growing impatience, Javert watched as Valjean's hands and feet quickly found hold, clenching his jaw as he tried to remember where Valjean's hands gripped, and then Valjean was past him, and Javert took a deep breath and set to follow.

He did not think. His entire world was reduced to this mad scramble up a wall: one hand reaching out, feeling, grasping, at last clutching the next stone or groove; pulling up his weight by the precarious hold he had on the merciless stone; setting down a foot in another groove; shifting and stretching and clutching with bleeding fingertips at the small protrusions that allowed them to claw their way further up the wall.

He could not say how much time had passed. His heart was racing in his chest. He was breathing in the dust that came raining down from where Valjean still made his way upwards. He could no longer remember how high the roof of the cave had been. As high as the roof of a two-storeyed house? Maybe, he thought, and then bit back a cry when his hand slipped and for a second, he hung by his other hand, his ribs aching while he held on with all his life, ignoring the pain of his bleeding fingertips.

Somewhere behind them, the sounds had grown louder. Surely, as soon as they entered this cave, the men would see them...

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to reach out again, his right hand searching for another stone, another tiny ledge. There, once more, was the small, slippery rock that had betrayed him before. Dare he chance it again to trust all his weight to it? What if once more, it would slide out of his grasp? 

But there was nothing else his hand could reach, no matter where he searched, his panic heightening as he listened to the voices in the darkness behind them. Soon they would be seen. Soon. Any moment now — how far up was Valjean? Would he be safe? Certainly at least Valjean would be able to pull himself to safety...

“Come. Hold onto me,” a voice close to him gasped, and when Javert turned his head in disbelief, he saw that Valjean had made his way partly down the wall again, hovering next to him now with the lamp tied to his trousers. “Hold onto my arm. Now, Javert!”

Javert's head swum. His arms burned. There was a stabbing pain in his shoulders. It would be so easy to let go... Why had Valjean returned for him when he could already have been safely hidden from view in the tunnel?

His heart ached again. But there was no time for thought now. Valjean was close enough that he could grasp his sweat-slick upper arm and painfully pull himself up another step. Then Valjean followed, and Javert panted as he held on to his shoulder and pulled himself up once more.

“Close. We're close.” There was fear in Valjean's voice too, and that was reassuring, Javert thought, blinking against the sweat that ran down his brow as he ignored his protesting muscles to follow where Valjean lead. 

How much farther? How much longer until the men would see them? His foot threatened to slide off the stone, and he grunted and clutched at Valjean's arm and threw himself at the wall, his hand scrabbling madly for purchase until his fingers found another indentation to hang onto. He panted. More sweat dripped from his nose. He was too exhausted to even turn his head to see how Valjean was faring.

Any moment now they would reach the ledge. Any moment—

“There! Up there!” 

He could feel Valjean's flinch at the shout, and then there was a shot, and dust and splinters of stone rained down on Javert from where the bullet had harmlessly hit the roof of the cave.

Again he clenched his teeth and tried to force himself onward. Valjean was no longer where he had been, he found when instinct made him reach out for that strong arm again. His stomach plummeted with sudden, stricken fear; another part of him rejoiced at the thought that at last, Valjean had done what was right, what was most important, and climbed back up to safety. 

Javert was only a burden for him here. Valjean had to flee to safety; no one would be helped if they both died on this wall. 

Another shot fell. This time it hit closer to where Javert still hung at the wall, and he smiled grimly through the dust that rained down on him and forced himself to reach out once more for another stone to hold on to.

His fingers encountered nothing. Another shot, this time so close that a splinter of stone struck his brow. Javert held on, grimaced — and then a hand wrapped around his wrist from above.

“Hold on!” Valjean's face appeared above him when Javert craned his neck. Valjean too was grimy with dust, sweat gleaming on his face, and Javert looked at where Valjean's fingers stretched taut around his wrist. 

Could Valjean pull him up like that in time? Valjean had made it up onto the ledge — but kneeling there now, holding on to Javert to pull him up, turned him into a perfect target for the guns of the men hunting for them.

Javert panted for breath as he studied Valjean's face. Again a gun resounded; this time the bullet hit the stone only inches from where Valjean's hand grasped his.

If Javert let go now, Valjean would be free of his burden; he would have time enough to flee. He would live.

Valjean's eyes were wide and bloodshot, gleaming with panic as they held Javert's. Again Javert remembered the parapet, that loving hand that had reached out for him, offering mercy and compassion without question. He remembered too that one fragment of a heartbeat when his hand had slipped out of Valjean's grip, and for the first time he wondered what Valjean had felt in that moment, if he still had nightmares of that scene.

“Remember,” Valjean gasped, his eyes filled with fear, as though he knew Javert's thoughts. “Your life — mine. Mine. You said so. Don't you dare—”

Javert took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Another shot, a second. More dust rained down on them.

With his last remaining strength, he released his grip on the wall and threw himself forward, upward, clutching at Valjean's arms with both hands now while above him, Valjean groaned and strained.

Then, Javert found himself pulled over the ledge, and for a long moment, he could do nothing but gasp for air while more shots hit the cave's roof.

Valjean was next to him, on his back. His hand was still wrapped around Javert's wrist; in turn, Javert's hand still clutched at his arm.

Javert turned his head. For a long moment, they looked at each other, panting and gasping for breath while below them, they could now make out the sound of Claquesous' voice shouting a threat.

Once, he had thought that Valjean desired to leash him to life as a punishment.  Javert stared at the lines of age and pain and exhaustion around Valjean's eyes, the dust that had settled into wrinkles, the bruises. He relaxed his hand a little, although he did not release Valjean. Valjean's arm was hard beneath his palm. He could feel the tendons and muscles shift and stretch.

Javert understood now. Such a thing could never be a punishment. And if Valjean was his leash, then he in turn would be Valjean's, shackling him to this life that Valjean had been determined to abandon. Valjean might not thank him for it — but with Valjean's arm warm and firm in his grasp, he felt for the first time completely devoid of all doubt and filled with a new purpose. There was only one road to take from here. And that was the road by Valjean's side.


	18. Skulls and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert and Valjean make their way through darkness into the true Empire of Death at last.

Despite the burn of his lungs, warmth filled Javert as he rested against Valjean, knowing they had made it—together. As he had promised. The moment when he had stood on the parapet and felt his hand slip from Valjean's grasp with satisfaction was already growing dim in his memory. Who had that man been? The choice had seemed easy to make then. It had been a simple matter between him and that superior he had to reject. 

Now things were no longer easy. Now there was Valjean—but there was so much more than Valjean. There was Valjean's love for his daughter. There was the boy he had carried out of the sewers. There was Toussaint, who had helped them at such peril to her own life. There were Chabouillet and Gisquet, who would be displeased with Javert. There was Henry, a ninny at times, but perhaps still a good man, who would wonder what had happened should he not return.

Valjean's life was so much larger than Javert had ever realized before. At times he felt that it was larger than Valjean himself could see. And now, somehow, Javert's life had grown along with it. When he thought of the parapet, it was no longer a case of giving his resignation to a superior. It was, it seemed to him, a decision to be made in front of a large jury: a jury where indeed most members had Valjean's vexing trait of handing out compassion, understanding, forgiveness—no matter whether it was warranted or deserved.

The thought of unasked-for mercy still made Javert's skin crawl; but, no matter whether Javert himself deserved such a life full of people who cared for him, there was no question that Valjean did. Valjean needed to return to the surface, and because Valjean needed to live, Javert needed to live, and because Valjean needed to be happy, Javert needed to—

Another shot hit the roof above them, and more harmless dust rained down.

No, this was not the time at all to ponder how Jean Valjean might be persuaded to seek happiness. 

“You think you can trick me. Ah, that was very smart of you, Javert—but you do not know me well at all!” Claquesous' voice rang out after a moment. “You think you can flee? Remember who it was who mapped the quarries and the sewers and the old, forgotten tunnels!”

Javert clenched his fingers around Valjean's arm.

“Remember too that I know your sordid secret. Do you dream of running back to Chabouillet's lap? Do you think he will listen to a single word once he knows how eager you are to bend over for a convict? Who knows how many others there have been! That cut-throat Rondeau - what will Gisquet say when he hears that he escaped two years ago because you were eager to play his bitch? What about that arrest the winter before, where once again your suspect escaped? No one will believe you, Javert. You have no one left to run to.”

Javert could feel the blood leave his face. The words had had a strange effect on him—he, who was used to men like Claquesous spewing bile and lies, now felt his stomach dropping and his chest aching, and even the thought of standing before M. Gisquet to be questioned sickened him.

“Do not listen to his lies.” Valjean's hand pressed Javert's, but he could not meet his eyes. 

The words were lies—but at the bottom of it all, there was that kernel of truth that made it difficult to breathe. Javert had seen men behave like beasts in Toulon. He had been confronted with all sorts of unsavory sights and acts in the streets and parks of Paris. For so long, he had wrapped his disdain around himself like an armor. He was better than that caste of vermin and animals. Javert was no dog rutting in the darkness.

He forced himself to turn his head and look at Valjean. The truth was, he thought, shame and exhaustion heating his face, he would bend over for Valjean without hesitation. Perhaps he was indeed no different than those men he had been disgusted by. Perhaps it was a shameful thing indeed, and he deserved the disdain of all of his superiors. He had never even contemplated such a thing before, and never thought he would. 

But now, the derisive words and all those old, contemptuous memories had been planted in his heart like a seed, and no matter how acute the shame, there was also a strange thrill entwined with it. He would lower himself like that for Valjean. He would roll over to his stomach for him. Be his bitch. Claquesous was right.

But most of all, he thought, even as another shot hit the stone above them, most of all it seemed impossible to lower himself with Valjean. The acts he had once observed might have been shameful displays of animal lust. But Valjean—certainly no touch of Valjean could ever be shameful.

“You cannot escape. These tunnels are mine. Remember what I told you, Javert. You will not escape the empire of death!” 

Claquesous' voice had darkened and now seemed to come from the other side of the cave. For a moment, Javert stared at the dark opening that loomed before them. Did Claquesous know where it led? Would they run right into the waiting arms of his men?

Valjean tugged on his hand, and Javert took a deep breath and nodded, following Valjean towards the entrance. They stayed on hands and knees to escape the guns that were still fired in their direction so that every now and then, more dust and pieces of stone rained down onto them from above.

It did not matter where this tunnel led, Javert thought as Valjean pulled him inside. It did not matter. He stood pressed against Valjean for one moment, both of them trying to catch their breath. They could still hear the shouts in the distance, although Claquesous himself had fallen silent.

There was no way back. They could only go forward.

The tunnel was dark and narrow. They made their way through it as quickly as they could. Javert had to keep his head lowered. Every now and then he gave Valjean's side a worried look, but Valjean did not complain about the wound, and indeed moved fast enough that Javert nearly had trouble keeping up.

Still he did not ask Valjean to slow down. The only thing that mattered now was to find a way out before Claquesous' men caught up with them.

The light of Valjean's lamp was flickering. How much oil was left? Javert clenched his jaw. It did not matter; they had no time to stop and search for more. They needed to find a way out of this tunnel. Claquesous knew these ways too well; they needed to find a way off these paths, or else—

“Here!” Valjean's breath came in gasps. He shone the light of their lamp into another of the alcoves Javert knew so well: an old opening of a tunnel, perhaps, that now ended after a few steps, filled with debris.

“We cannot hide here, it's too small!” Almost he was tempted to grab Valjean's arm and bodily pull him forward. “They will see us as soon as they come past with a lamp.”

“No, you do not understand!” It was Valjean who took hold of Javert's arm instead and pulled him into the alcove—right up to where fallen stone obstructed an old passage.

“Here!” Valjean thrust his lamp out at the huge slab of stone that blocked the tunnel. Javert ground his teeth. Any moment, their pursuers might arrive—

“Look!” The light shone through a small opening between the boulder and the wall. It illuminated a space—Javert took a step closer, narrowing his eyes. There was no stone behind the large rock that had somehow come to block this tunnel.

“See? If we can move it—there is an opening behind it. An unused tunnel. They will not know where we went!”

"We cannot move it," Javert said, and then, his throat dry, "Valjean, no!"

But already Valjean was at work, the lamp placed down on the ground as he stepped towards the boulder and began to push at it with all his might.

Javert swallowed his protests. It did not matter, he told himself again—Valjean's wound did not matter right now, for they would die either way if they could not find a fast escape from this tunnel.

Valjean's face gleamed with sweat as Javert stepped up to push at the rock as well with what strength still remained in him. Valjean's eyes were closed, and Javert could watch his muscles flex and tendons tighten as he pushed with all his formidable strength. It seemed impossible, Javert thought helplessly. The stone did not budge when Javert threw all of his weight against it.

And yet - had he not seen Valjean perform miracles? Had not Jean Valjean once knelt in the street of Montreuil-sur-Mer beneath a cart, and had not Javert watched that body lift the cart as though he were watching Atlas himself carry the weight of the world on his shoulders?

He clenched his teeth, pushed harder, and then groaned in exhaustion. A quick glance to his right showed him that blood had once again begun to stain the shirt at Valjean's side.

Javert wanted to pray, but he was too afraid and too exhausted for his heart to form words. All he could do was to throw his body against the rock again and watch the red spread through the fabric.

The stone shifted.

Javert was so surprised he nearly fell. With a groan, the boulder slid back, only a little at first, and then another foot, and then—

The boulder rolled back and toppled over, as though it had been pushed past whatever held it lodged in the entrance of this tunnel. When Javert turned to look at Valjean in triumph, he saw Valjean press a hand to his side as he stumbled - and then, like an avalanche that had been released by the dislodgement of the boulder, there was the terrible sound of stones coming lose. Dust rose. Javert could see Valjean go down, reached out for him in terror and felt a small rock hit his hand hard enough to bruise—

And then Valjean was gone.

Where he had stood a moment ago, now a hole loomed; another tunnel leading downward that had been revealed by the shifted boulder. When Javert grabbed the lamp and leaned over it in despair, shouting Valjean's name in utter disregard of the men hunting them, more stones came loose. There was one moment of terrified weightlessness as everything shifted, and then Javert found himself slipping into the hole as well. The lamp shattered with a sickening crunch. Everything was darkness as he fell, stones and rocks ceaselessly battering at him as he tumbled down and down, and further down, until he stopped trying to grasp at the walls to halt his fall and just tried to protect his head as well as he could.

There was silence, eventually. The sounds of rolling stones died away, and after a long, tense moment, Javert cautiously dared to open his eyes.

Everything was dark. He blinked, but remained in darkness, and then remembered how the lamp had shattered.

All of his limbs ached as though he had taken another beating, but it was nothing to the thought of being alone and lost deep in the dark tunnels below Paris.

Then there was a sound. A low groan somewhere to his left, and Javert held still, his mind supplying him with images of Claquesous waiting there for him — or perhaps some escaped beast hunting in these abandoned quarries, or—

Again the sound returned, and with it, some of Javert's reason.

"Valjean?" he called out softly. His voice did not tremble, although he could barely raise his arms and reach out for fear that he would meet no resistance, that there was no one to touch, that he had lost Valjean and would crawl through these tunnels alone forever...

"Javert?" 

He nearly wept at the pained, familiar voice. It was Valjean. Valjean was here with him. Valjean lived. If they died, they would die together...

"Valjean! Are you hurt? Don't move!" He forced himself onto his hands and knees, ignoring the ache of his bruised muscles as he slowly crawled forward.

He bit back a cry when he finally brushed against a solid, soft form, but then his hand was clasped in Valjean's, and they found each other there in the darkness, clinging to each other amidst the rubble.

"You live!" Valjean breathed into his hair at last, a trembling hand stroking his cheek. "I thought, when the ground suddenly gave way... I thought that was the end."

Javert could not speak, could not even breathe, could only bury his face against Valjean's neck and gasp his fear and relief into his skin, clutching at him as though Valjean might be taken away again any moment.

"The lamp?" Valjean asked after a long moment had passed, and Javert had to swallow several times before he could speak again when he raised his head from his shoulder. 

"Gone. I heard it shatter."

"Ah," Valjean said, his voice shaking as well, and then Javert felt him draw himself up. "We have come this far. We can go on. Just hold onto me. We cannot lose each other down here."

Javert wanted to protest. He wanted to remain here, clutching at Valjean until all danger had passed, or perhaps, until he died — but that was useless. It would do no good. Better to move on. In time, they might find another abandoned corridor with lamps.

Or another spot in the darkness to lie down and die, a voice supplied, but he ignored it as he stood with a groan.

It was difficult to make their way forward in the darkness. They could only go slowly, whoever walked in front holding out his hands to make sure they did not walk into an obstacle, taking careful step after step in case there should be a sudden chasm looming before them.

Javert soon lost all feeling for time or distance. His body ached, and every muscle felt sore from his fall, but still they dragged themselves forward.

Once, when they paused to rest against the wall of the tunnel they were shuffling through, Javert found the tinderbox still in his pocket. But when he struck a spark, all it illuminated for a heartbeat was Valjean's dirty, tired face and a tunnel that looked like any other tunnel they had found themselves in before. Javert's fingers were trembling as he tried for another spark, anything to banish this never-ending darkness - but then Valjean's hand came to rest heavily on his arm.

"Save it," Valjean said, and Javert wanted to weep with frustration and shame at his weakness, for he knew that Valjean was right. "We might still need it. We need to find wood. Something, anything, that will burn."

Javert nodded, and then tried to make himself speak but found that he could not. Instead, there in the darkness, his hands found Valjean's face, curling around it with desperate greed as he held him in place for another kiss, moaning at the heat of Valjean's tongue against his own until his heart raced with a wicked lust instead of fear.

Valjean did not protest. His hand had come up to cup Javert's face, fingers twined into his whiskers, his thumb brushing gently, affectionately against his cheek while Javert trembled with fear-laced need.

"Let us go on," Valjean murmured against his mouth. 

Javert still wanted to clutch at him, and then felt shame return at the thought that it was Valjean who had to comfort him, when it was Valjean who had been shot in his stead. Instinctively, his hands wanted to search out the wound again, but then he hesitated. What if it was still bleeding? If it was, there was nothing he could do about it.

"We need to find some light," he said instead and helped Valjean up. After a moment, he self-consciously touched his fingertips to Valjean's shirt after all, and then took a deep breath of relief. No wetness.

Again they shuffled forward, blind and alone, lost in this maze where Claquesous ruled, and where sooner or later, they would certainly be found and returned into his keeping.

This time, Javert tried to pay more attention to their surroundings. Whenever they rested, or when his feet would brush against some object, he would stop to feel whether providence had sent them something they might use for a fire at last. He cursed himself now for not having paid better attention to their surroundings in that small tunnel. 

But even down here, there might be abandoned, broken crates. They could not know how far the net of mushroom trade stretched - it already went much farther than anything Javert would ever have believed possible. There might have been men here in this tunnel as well. Any moment now, they might stumble across a broken cart, an abandoned crate—even a lamp forgotten in an alcove, awaiting the return of workers to yet another cave that would soon yield a crop of mushrooms.

Once, Javert stumbled across something that in his rising excitement he thought to be splintered wood—but no matter how often he tried to set fire to it with his tinderbox and trembling fingers, the sparks would not take. At last, Valjean took it out of his hand. He managed to set fire to a handful of loose threads he had torn from his pants; in the heartbeat that they smoldered, Valjean dragged a finger across the long, splintered object Javert had found, and then shook his head. “It's bone, Javert,” he said, and Javert felt his hands clench in helpless rage.

Had they truly come so far only to be abandoned in such a place? Were they doomed to wander the darkness for all eternity?

“I wonder how that came to be here,” Valjean said softly, and then fell silent. 

Javert could barely hold back a sound of frustration. What did it matter how it had come here, when soon, their bones would join it? Or worse—what if some creature had made its den down here, a rabid dog that would maul them in the dark? Some escaped great beast from the Jardin des Plantes?

“Come,” Valjean said and took his hand. Javert followed, listening to the sound of their breathing echo through the tunnel filled by darkness. Perhaps this was purgatory. Perhaps this was hell. Perhaps there had never been that savior who had dragged him out of the water… Perhaps even that new heart in his chest had never been real. The thought sent a sudden stab of terror through him, so that Javert pressed his hand against his chest to reassure himself.

They bumped against a stony outcrop nearly at the same time. Javert cursed, but when he reached out to hold himself up, he fell silent as his hands encountered hewn stone. Where before they had stumbled through a simple tunnel, this was different—this was a regular, smooth surface. This was a door-frame, an opening to some passageway, and he said “Valjean,” breathless and excited, and took hold of his hand to press it against the surface.

“Maybe it is one of those corridors connecting the larger caves.” 

Although Valjean spoke softly, his voice seemed to have a different quality. After a moment, Javert realized that it came echoing back towards them. Did this opening indeed lead to a larger cave? Might they—Javert took a step forward, excitedly feeling his way along the wall—might they find a lamp at last? There would have to be one, he thought, his aching fingertips sliding past rocks until they finally came to rest on a wall of loose stones.

“Valjean! Come!” 

Javert felt momentarily guilty for the curtness of his command, but the darkness was making his throat tighten. He could not bear to remain still here for a moment longer, not when there had to be a lamp, a way out here, somewhere nearby, there had to be—

His breath was coming fast as he made his way along the wall of loose stones that every now and then shifted beneath his searching hands. He imagined the cave collapsing over them; then he clenched his teeth together, cold sweat running down his back, and focused on the warmth of Valjean's hand on his arm and the certainty that there had to be a lamp here, there had to be. Claquesous was greedy in his need to lay claim to his territory. And his men were lazy. There would have to be—

“Ha!” he said, fingers trembling when they encountered an object that jutted forth from the wall. Was that a lamp?

“A torch,” he breathed as his fingers circled the head of it again and again, barely able to trust their luck. Maybe it was but another bone, he told himself, even as he managed to pull it free from whatever held it in place on the wall.

But no, it had to be a torch. He could feel it. The roughness of the wood, the oil-soaked cloth at the top...

“It is a torch, Valjean, I tell you,” he said, even though Valjean had not protested.

“Careful.” Valjean's fingers tightened around Javert's shoulder when he once more took out the tinderbox and tried to strike sparks.

His fingers trembled. His chest ached. He could not breathe—and then the first spark died away. The next try—nothing. Again. Again. Again...

And then there was light. Javert was nearly blinded by it when the torch suddenly caught fire, and he stared at it until his eyes grew blurry with tears, a sob caught in his throat at this wonder that would save them, that would lead them out, that would—

He raised the torch and turned towards Valjean, only to recoil in terror when a skull stared right back at him, a white mask of death flashing him a terrible grin.

For one moment, panic squeezed his heart like bands of iron, reality shifting and twisting until once more he felt trapped beneath the water, drowning in a tunnel deep beneath the earth, buffered back and forth by the currents of the Seine—and then reality returned, and he saw that Valjean was still by his side. Before him, there stretched the ghastly sight of a line of bleached skulls grinning at him in mockery.

Javert raised the torch higher, his heart racing. In the circle of light, a wall of skulls spread out before them, darkness leering at them from empty eyeholes. When he turned, he saw that there was another wall of skulls and bones on the other side: stacked so densely that Javert recalled all of a sudden the feeling of loose stones beneath his searching hands. No—not stone. Bone. Skulls and bones.

“My God!” he breathed, turning until he faced Valjean once more. Valjean was pale and noticeably exhausted, but even so, his mouth now twisted into a small smile.

“You've found the way into the Catacombs, Javert!”

“Found?” Javert strangled a shocked laugh, tightening his grip on the torch to hide the way his hands trembled. “If I recall rightly, the way found us. I have the bruises to prove how unkindly it treated us, too.”

“Has it not been opened to visitors again? That means there will be an exit. And it won't be controlled by Claquesous. Even he cannot be so bold as to lay claim to this place. It attracts too much public notice for his plans.”

“How is your wound?” Javert was not certain in the flickering light of the torch, but the blood on Valjean's shirt seemed to have not spread any further.

“It is nothing,” Valjean said, and then, at Javert's look, sighed deeply.

“It aches, but it has stopped bleeding. You know I have been through worse.”

Javert exhaled, then nodded. “Not much longer now.” He prayed that it was the truth.

“We have light. We will make it.”

Javert grasped Valjean's hand to keep himself from reaching out and pulling him into another desperate kiss. The darkness had been the worst thing, he told himself. Now he no longer had to fear that they would lose each other.

Slowly, they made their way forward. The raised torch illuminated the seemingly endless corridor of grinning skulls and pale bones that stretched before them. A shudder rolled across his skin. Javert was not given to superstitions, and yet there seemed to him a great and terrible meaning to the display. How many times had they narrowly avoided death now? Had Claquesous not been right after all? Now they were in the Empire of Death in truth, and Death did not release his prisoners.

Once more cold sweat ran down Javert's back. He fought down the irrational notions and deliberately made himself look at Valjean. Either both of them would escape, or neither. Javert knew he would rather be condemned to an eternity in Hell by Valjean's side than escape alone.

“If you have ever seen a man die, consider always that the same fate awaits you,” Valjean read from an inscription, while the skulls around them grinned silently. 

Javert clasped Valjean's shoulder—and then an echo was carried down the long corridor of bone, and Javert's heart ceased beating for a terrified moment.

There were voices in the distance once more. Voices—and the sound of many feet.

“They have found us!” he said, even as Valjean gasped “Run!” and then they ran, skulls to their left and right, their mouths dark holes of taunting laughter.

They ran. The corridors did not seem to end. There were still the voices of pursuers behind them, echoing now from all around them—but there was no choice but to go onward.

Javert's ribs ached fiercely. His eyes burned from the torch's smoke. He grasped Valjean's arm tightly, praying with what little breath remained in him that God would once more reach out a hand towards Valjean.

Before them, a small chamber opened all of a sudden, and Javert skidded to a halt when from the wall of grinning skulls, two paths opened. Out of the darkness the echo of a distant shout reverberated between the walls of mocking eyeholes, and Javert panted, understanding at last the fear of the mouse driven into a corner. How often had he been on the other side of the hunt?

Once more he drew Valjean close, dread gripping his heart. This could very well be their last moment. He could not force out a single word—but then, what words could possibly encompass the joy and fear of having come to know love at last?

He felt Valjean's cheek against his own, hot and tacky with dust and sweat as he drew in a deep breath, inhaling his scent. Such comfort he had come to mean.

If they were to die here, Valjean would not die alone. Valjean would die knowing himself loved. Yes, Javert could give him that at least.

And for himself... He thought again of the look Valjean had given him, that moment of silence when certitude had touched him, light and warm as the embrace of wings. Javert would die knowing himself forgiven. How strange that was, and yet how good. To think that he had sought irreproachability—how foolish that now seemed. How much harder it was to strive for forgiveness and goodness! And how much more rewarding it had proven in the end.

He entwined his fingers with Valjean's. Then, once more, they ran, choosing the left tunnel by instinct. More skulls greeted them, more bleached bones staring at them in the flickering lamp light, the engraved words on the stones foreboding certain doom—and still they ran. There was nothing else to do.

Javert could feel his heart beat against his aching ribs, his lungs burning, and he wondered again how much longer Valjean could run. There was no sound in the darkness but the echo of their feet, and their pursuers in the distance, and at last it was Valjean who pulled them to a halt, gesturing urgently towards a dark corner. When Javert wanted to protest in fear at the sounds behind them, Valjean clasped his hand over his mouth, his eyes wild, and nodded at the corridor that opened in front of them.

There was a light at the end of that tunnel. The tunnel turned a corner—but there was a source of light somewhere down that tunnel, flickering and moving, and even in the heartbeat that they both stared at it with the fright of the trapped animal, it seemed to Javert that it grew brighter.

They were caught. It was too late, Javert thought, shuddering with the need to run and hide, or to at least take a stand and protect Valjean with his life, as he had sworn. But the sounds behind them were growing louder as well. There was no escape now.

Claquesous had them surrounded. No escape. No way out.

Javert groaned against Valjean's hand, fear for Valjean an agony worse than even the pain of his broken ribs had been, and prayed that he would not have to watch Valjean die. Then Valjean pulled him towards a corner, where he now saw a small alcove shadowed by a pillar. It held a large block of stone with another inscription—a grave perhaps, or a monument. Either way, it would not hide them, Javert thought, even as he allowed Valjean to pull him down until they were crouching behind the slab of stone in the shadows. Javert quickly doused the torch. Then everything was dark, and they waited.


	19. The Shadow Within the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a burning cloak is found empty, and Orpheus follows Eurydice out of the Underworld.

Javert's heart was racing in his chest. His hand was slippery with sweat. He tightened it around Valjean's, and then, there in the darkness, their mouths met once more, and Javert did not care that it was desperate and messy. Perhaps he should have used his last moments for a prayer, or told Valjean that he loved him, that he loved him and needed him and that he did not deserve his forgiveness...

But the time for words had passed, and waiting with them in the darkness was nothing but terror. So instead they clutched at each other and Javert kissed Valjean hungrily, greedily, drowning himself in the taste of his mouth and the comfort of his embrace. If there was one thing to regret, then it was that Javert had never had a chance to touch Valjean in the sunlight, in a bed, somewhere unblemished by fear and captivity.

Then the sounds grew louder. The blackness of the catacombs turned to twilight when the flickering lamps of their pursuers came closer. Javert drew back and prayed once more in despair, _Do not force me to watch him die_ , and then Valjean's trembling fingers rested against his cheek, and the voices were now so close he could almost make out their words.

“Javert.” Valjean spoke so softly it was almost inaudible, little more than a breath against his lips. He said nothing else, but Javert was filled by a deep, selfish joy. If he had to die—was there a better way to die than knowing that Valjean's last thought would be of him?

For one moment, the world was reduced to the shadows of their hiding place, the warmth of Valjean's breath, the unbearable lightness of his touch. Then Valjean straightened and drew back, his eyes wide as light spilled into the little alcove. The sounds of their pursuers echoed around them and Javert thought, _This is it, this is your final moment with him. Look at him; keep that in your heart wherever you go—_

Valjean made a soft, choked sound. “Cosette!” he said, and as he saw the tears in Valjean's eyes, Javert felt the uncharitable sting of jealousy. He would die with Valjean in his heart—but Valjean's final thought would be of his daughter.

Even now, at the end of all things, that ached in a way he had not quite known before. Yet was it not completely natural that a man should think of his daughter at the moment of his death, and not of an enemy turned—friend? Was that what he was?

There were shouts now. Then, Javert watched with horrified disbelief as Valjean rose, giving away what final few seconds they had left. Was he seeking to surrender? Did he think that he could barter with Claquesous, that he could trade his life for Javert's? 

Determined, Javert rose as well, his heart thudding against his aching ribs once more, filled to bursting with feelings that seemed too grand to contain. So new this heart still was. It had not lived long—but it had learned to love well. Javert looked with helpless affection at the curve of Valjean's mouth, the sweat gleaming at his throat, the stubble that had chafed against his own cheek when they had woken tangled together.

It shamed him still that Claquesous knew of his feelings for Valjean. It was altogether a thing too precious for the coarse derision of Claquesous' words—but in the end, it did not matter. He had to trust that Valjean knew that there had never been anything derisive in Javert's desire for him. Javert would have chosen to be humbled—eagerly, he admitted to himself—before he would ever demand such a thing from Valjean.

“Cosette,” Valjean said again, and then the men were upon them—with torches that smoked and lanterns so bright that Javert had to shield his eyes after their long trek through the darkness,.

It took a long moment for Javert to realize that Valjean was no longer beside him. Valjean had left their meager cover, had left Javert behind, and was now –

Javert's breath stuck in his throat. For one long, terrible moment, it seemed once more like the world had twisted and turned beneath his very feet, that nothing made sense anymore, that all reason had abandoned him.

There Valjean stood, enfolded in the arms of the young woman Javert had come to know as his daughter Cosette. 

He stared. He did not move. Finally, while the din around him was still echoing through the tunnels, a hand came to rest on his arm, and he started.

“Javert! Javert, my God, we found you!”

“Henry,” Javert said, and then repeated the name in disbelief. Could this be true? Was he dreaming? Had, perhaps, one of Claquesous' men poisoned him; had he already died and was now lost in a purgatory of fever dreams, was—

“You look terrible,” Henry said and smiled, although his face was lined with concern as he stared at Javert. “You do. What happened to you down here? But come, now is not the time for talk, we—”

“Henry,” Javert interrupted, turning once more to observe Valjean and Cosette. Valjean held her tightly wrapped in his arms, and Javert saw his shoulders shaking.

What a strange twist of fate, Javert thought with wonder. Valjean had sought to run from his own daughter out of absurd worry, and here she stood, descended into Hell itself to wrest Valjean back out of the grasp of the demons that had sought to torment them here!

“Are you well?” Henry's worried voice broke off his thoughts, and Javert shook himself.

“Thirsty, hungry, and very bruised,” he said, and then breathed deeply, still not quite certain he dared to believe in this miracle. “Valjean needs a doctor. He's been shot, no more than a few hours past.”

“Valjean?”

Javert stiffened as he realized what he had said.

“M. Fauchelevent.” Javert prayed that Henry would pay no attention to his slip. Henry had never heard of Valjean. That sighting at the well had been long before his time. “Claquesous was after his house and his money. There might have been other, similar cases in the past. We should look at what property he might have acquired, and see if others have vanished.”

“That is what the girl thought,” Henry said and turned to observe them as well. “Remarkable. She came to me with old maps—the sewers, quarries, you name it. Gisquet would not let me go after you, of course, not at first. I needed a reason. Well, I needed permission to go after _you_ ; I did not need permission to follow a request for help from a distressed citizen and his wife whose father had been the victim of a crime, you see.”

Javert's eyes slid again from Henry to Valjean, safely held in his daughter's embrace. Once more he thought of what they had shared, and for the first time doubt crept in—could what they had found here indeed flourish in the daylight?

Then the cave was filled by the resounding thunder of sudden gunfire, and Javert flinched away when a lamp close to him exploded in a rain of glass shards. Once more confusion broke out. Amidst the screams and shouts, Javert could not take his eyes from Valjean, who had turned to shield Cosette with his own body.

Henry was gone from his side. A moment later, Javert saw him reappear on the other side of the chamber, where Martin was shouting commands as men gathered around him. Then a small group of soldiers with their rifles at the ready entered the tunnel from which Claquesous' men were shooting at them.

Again the guns sounded. Javert's stomach convulsed at the smell of smoke and gun powder that filled the room, his hands twitching uselessly by his side. Valjean was comforting his daughter. That was right and as it should be—Javert knew that he had no right to interrupt and take that from him, but still he ached to shield Valjean, or to take a gun and follow Henry despite the weariness of his bruised body.

The sounds of fighting quickly died down. Two rounds of shots had been fired; now the soldiers returned from the tunnel, and Javert watched Martin take command of the situation once more. 

“We've driven them off,” he shouted over the din. “Henry, take them out, this isn't safe; Chabouillet will have my head if a woman is harmed down here!”

Javert forced his weary legs to carry him forward, evading the girl, self-conscious all of a sudden—it was one thing to have done an injustice to her mother that could never be atoned for, but it was quite another to stand before her with the heat of Valjean's lips burned into his memory. Then a hand reached out and clasped his wrist, and he was stopped by Valjean’s side. When he looked up after all, he saw that Valjean was smiling at him despite the worry in his eyes. Valjean's cheeks were wet with tears, Javert realized, and his heart ached anew with how much he wanted to wipe them away with his own fingers.

But those tears were for his daughter, not Javert, and he knew that to comfort Valjean was a task he could not take from her either. 

“Inspector,” she said and wiped at her own tears. Javert became aware of what he had to look like—the grime and the sweat, and worse, the whip marks on his back—

His thoughts skidded to a stop. Valjean's own back was bare. There were his scars, new and old, bared to everyone in the room.

For one moment, a new horror filled him. Had they been rescued only for Valjean to be returned to the bagne? He could not breathe at the thought. But then Henry's kind hand touched his shoulder and a canteen with water was offered to him. A moment later, he had managed to acquire Henry's coat as well and helped Valjean to slip into it.

The room was gloomy, and filled by the flickering light of torches and lamps. And they were covered by bruises and dried blood and layers of dirt and dust. In the chaos, no one would later remember whether there had been old scars hiding beneath the new. But nevertheless, Javert greedily grasped at the feeling of elation when Valjean gave him a grateful look, his cheeks still wet.

That was one secret that had not yet been shared with Valjean's daughter. Javert felt a petty ecstasy at the thought.

Before Claquesous could attack once more, Henry began to lead them out. Again they were trudging down the dark tunnel, the skulls grinning at them. But this time, they were accompanied by Martin and his men, as well as a small company of soldiers he had brought down into the catacombs to hunt for them. Was it only a dream that their rescuers had found them? Javert could not shake the fear that still gripped his heart at every shout and every dislodged stone.

But there was no further attack. They made it through the winding corridors, past withered monuments and dour inscriptions. Javert, taken by a sudden, irrational fear, kept his eyes on Valjean's back and prayed that Valjean would not turn around for him until they had made it out of this underworld.

Valjean's arm was wrapped around Cosette, holding her close. He did not turn until they had stepped through a stone arch that led into yet another ante-chamber—and here, at last, Javert felt the weight of terror lift from his heart, for there were no more bleached bones staring at them in mute warning. Instead, when Javert turned around as well, he found that there, above them, upon the stone arch behind which the skulls were waiting, another inscription was engraved.

“Stop! Here lies the Empire of Death,” Valjean read, and Javert felt his hackles rise. Instinct made him take a step closer to Valjean as though to guard him from the threatening words.

A sudden wind appeared, and the light of their torches flickered and dimmed. Javert saw Cosette grab Valjean's arm in alarm. The men close to Martin halted and pointed their muskets in fear and confusion at the tunnel, but there was nothing to be seen—just a deepening darkness as one after the other the torches went out, until all they had left were the lamps.

Suddenly, there was a crash, like splintering glass, and a heartbeat later a flame as high as a man exploded from an alcove at the other end of the small ante-room. Cosette gasped and held on to Valjean, who had stepped in front of her. Martin was shouting loudly for the men to hold their position—and a breeze of cold air ghosted across Javert's neck.

“You will not escape Death, Javert,” a dark voice murmured behind him, so close that his heart froze for a moment, expecting the stab of a knife. 

“None of you will escape the Empire of Death,” the voice now whispered from somewhere in front of them, and he saw Valjean crane his neck in terror.

Laughter followed, echoing through the hallway so that Javert could not make out where it came from.

“Run, Javert!” Claquesous' voice urged again. “I have your secrets. How far will you run to escape them?”

This time, the voice came from somewhere to his left. Javert did not turn, but from the corner of his eye he thought that he saw a movement—the barest hint of it, like black cloth shifting in dark shadows.

Cosette still held on to a lamp. With two quick steps, Javert was by her side and grabbed it.

“None of you will escape! None of those who have entered the Empire of Death will—”

Claquesous had not yet finished his sentence when Javert threw the lamp with all his might.

It hit stone. For one moment, a shadow within that shadow was illuminated. Then black cloth caught fire. There was a scream, and shots rang out once more from the corridor behind them. Javert grabbed the musket of the closest man and aimed—but the bullet hit stone, and he snarled as he let the weapon fall to the ground and strode forward to the alcove that was still illuminated by flames.

The alcove was empty. Javert cursed, prodding at the burning cloth with his boot. It was a black cloak, now abandoned on the ground, with no trace of the one who had worn it or where he might have fled to.

Javert snarled again, hammering his fist in impotent rage against the wall that had swallowed Claquesous once more, until at last a familiar touch to his shoulder made him still.

“Javert. Leave it be. He is gone,” Valjean said. When Javert turned, Cosette stood beside him as well. 

Javert swallowed what he might have said. Her warm regard burned him; he barely dared to look at Valjean, lest she somehow descry what had come to pass between them in the cave. Was his admiration and devotion not written on his face for all to see? Had not Claquesous known immediately?

“He fled,” Javert said at last, his throat aching as he forced himself to meet Valjean's eyes. _He fled, and took his knowledge with him._

“It does not matter. You acted quickly, and courageously. You saved us, monsieur!” Cosette was pale, her eyes wide, but she held tightly on to Valjean's arm, and her voice was determined. Javert wanted to shake his head in bafflement that she was here in the first place. Martin must have lost his wits.

“She is right. You saved us, Javert,” Valjean said, his hand tightening around Javert's shoulder for a moment. “Come now. We need to leave. Once we are out of this place, none of his lies and traps will matter anymore.”

Javert looked around. The cave suddenly seemed empty—half the men had vanished down into the bone-lined paths of the Catacombs once more to deal with those who had shot at them from the shadows. Now, Henry came striding towards them in determination, waving at them to hurry up.

“Come, come! It is only a short walk until we are out—there's more men at the exit,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I shall not rest until you are safely outside once more, madame, for the Prefect will certainly have my head otherwise. Hurry now! I've had enough of shadows and magic tricks!”

Javert forced a grim smile onto his face, although his heart still beat with fear as he imagined Claquesous whispering lies—no, the truth, he forced himself to admit—into the Prefect's ear. 

It was the truth. Every single shameful thing Claquesous had said had been true. And now he stood here before Valjean's daughter with the words of Claquesous still ringing in his ears, full of shame because if given a chance he would gratefully play the bitch for Valjean as often as he desired.

The thought made him sick, both because Valjean would not want him to, and because these were terrible secrets to have. To surrender his post was one thing, but to have all those who once had looked upon him with respect know...

He shook his head as if to rid himself of these troubling thoughts. His face was hot, his chest still tight from the sudden terror of Claquesous' final trick. Valjean was swaying a little, and worry made him reach out for Valjean's arm, to steady him just as Cosette made another fearful sound.

“He will be fine, madame,” Javert said before she could speak. “But he does need a doctor to see to that wound, and as quickly as possible.”

Her face tightened. For a moment, Javert saw to his great astonishment the same obstinacy that he had observed on Valjean's face on more than a few occasions during their escape. After a heartbeat, Valjean averted his eyes in weary surrender.

Henry led them out quickly, with the remaining men guarding them, although there were no further apparitions of shadow or fire, and no further gunshots. Cosette stayed by Valjean's side, never releasing his hand even as they finally climbed back up towards the surface.

Outside, they were met by more men. It was late in the afternoon. The sun would soon begin to set. There was a wind, and there were clouds in the sky, and for a moment, Javert stood silent, motionless, blinking against the light that filled the street with golden warmth. After the darkness of the cave, the brightness of the sun nearly hurt—and yet, to Javert who had endured the growing pains of his soul’s salvation before, it was a welcome ache.

At last he turned, already a small smile on his face, to share this moment of quiet triumph with Valjean, the only one who would understand—

But Valjean's eyes were closed, his head tilted against Cosette's, and she had her arms wrapped tightly around him. Javert watched, not quite certain what the strange unrest in his chest meant. He was—jealous, he thought, tasting that word on his tongue with surprise and revulsion.

Was that what it had come to? Did he begrudge Valjean the love of his daughter, a love more innocent and pure than anything Javert had to offer? Again he thought of Claquesous' words and shuddered with shameful longing as he imagined himself naked, spread out beneath Valjean. He had seen the act in Toulon. For decades he had sneered and felt himself secure in his disdain of such animal urges.

Now he thought back to such scenes and imagined himself on his hands and knees, eagerly waiting. What a sight he would make.

He grimaced with disgust, even as something within him yearned for the memory of Valjean's hair brushing his face, the feeling of safety at waking with Valjean's skin warm against his. No, to do this for Valjean would not be shameful, he told himself once more. Certainly nothing Valjean touched could be blighted.

His thoughts could have circled those fears for hours with equal longing and confused shame, if Cosette had not interrupted him after scant minutes. She was indeed as obstinate as Valjean, as Javert quickly found out, at least when it came to the well-being of people she felt responsible for. He hardly knew what happened before he found himself wrapped in a blanket next to Valjean, ensconced in a fiacre with Cosette and two of Henry's men.

“You need rest, and father needs the doctor,” she said quite sensibly when Javert once dared to attempt a protest. He could not quite say why he felt the need to object to such treatment, only that he was embarrassed at being brought back to Valjean's home and Valjean's family, as if that was where he belonged. When, if they knew about his desires...

But the thought of Valjean's wound quickly distracted him. He lifted the blanket for another look at Valjean's torso. The wound needed cleaning, and it would need stitches, but it was only bleeding very sluggishly now. Still—the thought of leaving Valjean's side was unbearable, even now that he was slowly realizing that they might have escaped in truth.

Valjean's mouth twitched a little, as though he had read his thoughts.

“We made it,” he said quietly, and there was a tentative warmth in his eyes. “We truly made it. Just as you promised, Javert.”

“I fear that in the end, you did the greater part.” Javert thought again of the moment when he had been lost in the dark water, adrift somewhere between Heaven and Hell. “We made it back to the light. We truly did. And now look at your daughter and tell me she has not been hurt by your loss.”

Cosette was indeed still looking at Valjean with eyes gleaming with joy—or past grief, Javert supposed. Either way, what was between them was not for him; that was a chain older and far stronger than what had been forged between Valjean and himself in those few dark hours.

The carriage returned them to the house in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire which had become so familiar to Javert. And yet, this time was different to his past visits. As soon as they stepped out of the carriage, a flurry of activity commenced, until Javert found himself at last bandaged and cleaned in an armchair. A blanket had been wrapped around him, and he held a cup of steaming broth in his hand, while next to him, Valjean was stretched out on a settee with a doctor carefully seeing to his wounds. Cosette had been sent out of the room with the servants. She had seemed set to protest, but finally, at Javert's plea to make certain that her father would have a few minutes of privacy and rest, she had reluctantly left them alone with the doctor.

Javert was nearly surprised to see the gratitude on Valjean's face. The doctor's mien, on the other hand, was impassive, even when Valjean was made to slowly turn and bare his back.

The doctor did not make a sound at the sight that awaited there—the pale, old scars nearly invisible, covered by crisscrossing slashes of red, raised welts and scabbed lines where the whip had bitten deep into the skin.

Valjean was cleaned, and then salve was spread onto his wounds, and all the while Javert could not take his eyes from Valjean's face. He was very pale and had closed his eyes, bearing the gentle touch with the same tormented expression with which he had born the shackles in Claquesous' cave. Javert suddenly realized that except for Claquesous, this had to be the first time anyone had seen the scars left by the bagne.

All at once, Javert found that he had risen. The doctor, an old man with spectacles and gnarled hands that nevertheless had bandaged Valjean’s gun shot wound with deft gentleness, looked up when Javert stepped closer, but did not cease his task. Javert looked down at him. He knew he stood too close; he was not quite certain what he was doing, or why. With any other man, this would be called intimidation. And yet, this was a doctor, not a suspect—why had he felt compelled to rise?

"I will be finished in a moment, monsieur," the doctor said when Javert did not speak. He looked up again, unimpressed by the towering menace of Javert that had made hardened cutthroats quake, and then returned his attention to Valjean's back. 

Javert studied the lines engraved by pain and past injustices. There was a lump in his throat; he swallowed past it and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

What was important was Valjean's well-being. Valjean's wounds needed tending. What was one moment of indignity when—

"I am Inspector Javert," he said. "You will remember that. You will also remember that I was involved in an operation that is to come only to the attention of the Prefect himself, an operation that dealt a great blow against a group of very dangerous men, the success of which depends entirely on the secrecy of all men involved.”

"Is that so, Inspector Javert," the doctor said mildly, without looking up. 

"You will not give out details of anything you have seen or heard today," Javert said. Valjean did not move. What must it feel like to have all of his secrets laid bare to the world like this?

"If you have any questions—or worse, if anyone inquires after today's events, you shall notify me immediately, monsieur." Javert clenched his jaw, watching as a yellow salve was smoothed along another red welt while Valjean breathed shallowly, a trapped animal. "I will make it worth your while."

Slowly, the doctor gathered up his supplies in his bag, then drew himself up to his full height. He was a head shorter than Javert, and his hair was white and thin, but still he met Javert's gaze squarely.

"Inspector Javert," he said curtly, "I have saved another life in this house already. The young man is still alive. That is my only concern. It is of no one's business what else I observe, and I hope you will not insult me by insinuating otherwise."

Javert looked down once more at Valjean. He thought of the boy's grandfather. He thought of Claquesous' final threat.

"I did not intend to give insult," he forced himself to say, "but this is a grave matter. A good man has been kidnapped and tortured because a villain wanted his wealth. Who knows how many other victims there might still be? It is very important that—"

"Speak no more," the doctor said. The look he gave Javert was impatient. "I told you, I see and do nothing past that which is my duty. My duty made me care for a man who was wounded just as you say. That is all there is to it." 

He paused and looked down at Valjean once more. Javert felt his muscles twitch with the instinct to cover up Valjean's scars.

"M. Fauchelevent will heal," the doctor said slowly. He did not look at Javert, as though he were speaking only for the benefit of Valjean. "But there will be scars left. A terrible story, monsieur; a brute who tormented and chained you, no doubt to make you reveal where your wealth lies hidden. And I can hasten the healing, but I cannot do miracles. The whips and the chains they used will leave scars on your back and wrists, monsieur. Nothing can be done—but at least the Inspector succeeded in freeing you from that place."

Javert froze. His eyes returned to one bared wrist. It was reddened—but the scars still visible were old, pale bands of skin that spelled out Valjean's past for anyone with eyes to see.

Javert raised his eyes to the doctor's face once more, but now the man refused to meet his gaze and continued to pack up his bag. Javert took a deep breath.

"Who paid you for this?"

Now Valjean inhaled with a gasp, a shudder rolling across his skin as he slowly tried to straighten. It pained Javert to see it and he wished that he could push him back down, to stretch out on the settee and rest on soft pillows, as he had dreamed of so often in those caves. But this was too important. Javert ploughed on, on the scent of something that he knew he would regret letting go.

"Someone paid you. This is no mere kindness. You have seen...” Javert's face tightened, revulsion flooding him once more as he thought of Claquesous, and then of Toulon. One and the same, they seemed to him now. And yet he had felt no revulsion back then.

"You have seen his scars. You have come to a conclusion. You chose to lie, and I would thank you for that, but I must know. Who paid you?"

M. Gillenormand would not pay for a convict, Javert knew that. The man had seemed half out of his mind at times, but Javert had no doubt that he would not harbor Valjean in his house if he knew. Cosette, perhaps? They had not been able to talk in the carriage, although Javert ached with curiosity about what had led her down into the catacombs with Henry and his men. She was smart. She had figured out Claquesous' plan, or at least parts of it. Maybe she knew more than even Valjean thought...

"M. le Baron himself did," the doctor said with dignity. "If you will excuse me now. You may take it up with him. I have seen what I saw, which is a multitude of injuries that will lead to scarring in various places, and for that, I am very sorry, monsieur. I will leave you the salve and a bottle of laudanum so you might rest. Tomorrow morning, I will visit again. That is all, monsieur. Good day." 

His head held high, he moved past Javert, who was still frozen with disbelief at that most unlikely name.

Valjean blinked slowly, then pressed an uncertain hand to his brow. A heartbeat later, Javert found himself on his knees before where Valjean sat, disregarding the ache of his own bandaged wounds as he looked up into Valjean's face.

It seemed unreal to sit here in a warm drawing room, broth and tea waiting for them and armed men at the door. And yet, when he looked up at Valjean, all of that fell away and he felt once more the warmth of Valjean's body against his in the water, the despair of the kiss.

Javert swallowed and daringly covered Valjean's hand with his own.

"There. There, you see, now you shall not have to hide anymore," he murmured feverishly. "That's what he did, he gave you an explanation for the scars, and there is more that can be done, Valjean, there is—"

The door opened, and Javert drew back in shamed dismay at the quick patter of Cosette's feet on the floor.

Once more, he felt his presence as a suffocating intrusion when she cast herself down in his place and pressed kisses to Valjean's hand. "Father, father! Oh, I have worried so! You cannot chide me today for saying 'father', not when you have made me worry so much, and for so long! M. Jean is a terrible man to not come visit, to get himself kidnapped instead—but you, father, you will understand how I have suffered and wept for you." 

Valjean drew the blanket tightly around himself, then clasped her hands in his own, and Javert saw tears appear in Valjean's eyes.

How stupid he had been, he realized suddenly. How stupid and selfish. All along he had thought that if they could only escape, there would be no further trouble, no more heart-ache and tears. Had he not even thought with longing of the shameful acts Claquesous' mockeries had stirred up in his mind? 

He understood now that there was no place for such fantasies in this house—just as there should not be in Valjean's life. This was what Valjean had been torn from. This was what he had missed and what Javert had sought to return him to: light and warmth and comfort and, above all, the love of his daughter. The family Valjean so sorely deserved—the respect he had won by his exemplary life more than any other man.

Once more, Javert was but an intruder. 

He took a step towards the door, even as Valjean raised a hand to rest it on his daughter's head. He would not run away, he thought. He had made that mistake once; he would not repeat it again. He would stay until they had talked.

In fact, now that the upheaval and the torment of those days beneath the earth had finally been left behind, Javert felt the old uncertainty rise up in him. The thought of returning to his own rooms was tempting. He could close and lock the door, and then he would be alone. Completely alone, for the first time in so long. He would have time to think. He would have his own, familiar space, and perhaps that would be enough to make sense of all that had come to pass.

But he had stolen away from Valjean like a thief once. He would not do so again; not without at least bidding him goodnight, and reassuring him that this was not a repeat of that day that seemed so long ago.

Unless that was what Valjean desired of him...

The thought was painful, especially as it came on the heels of seeing Valjean so wrapped up in his daughter's embrace that Javert had been all but forgotten. But what was he expecting? To be coddled like a lapdog, to sit by Valjean’s side while he wept in his daughter's arms?

He grimaced with distaste at what he had become. Perhaps a break would be good for both of them. Let Valjean find healing in his daughter's arms. Let Javert, meanwhile, find a way to restore some of his sense. 

Determinedly, Javert left the room, closing the door so gently that neither of the two became aware of his leave-taking.


	20. A Return to the Whiteness of Clean Linen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the hardships of kissing a man in the sunlight.

In the corridor, one of Henry's men was standing watch, and Javert gave him a small nod. He was not certain what Valjean would think of their presence, but it was difficult to forget Claquesous' parting words. For now, it was good to have them in the house. 

He wandered slowly past a closed door, drawn by the sunlight that fell in from a window at the end of the hallway. What a wonder it was that they lived! He shuddered again when he thought of those long, painful moments in the darkness after the fall. Truly, it was a miracle that they had found their way back up to the sun.

"Monsieur," a voice called from an alcove. Instinct made Javert flinch before relief washed over him, for that voice was one he knew, and had indeed come to know as that of a guardian angel, sent by the Lord himself to return Jean Valjean to His light.

There, in the alcove, next to a marble bust, stood Toussaint. Weariness had deepened the lines on her face, but Javert recognized also a great wonder that they should have emerged from that terrible place with their lives.

"Toussaint!" he said and reached out to take her hands. She gave a start and looked up at him, and only then did he realize what he had done. He looked down, remembering the pot of stew, and that gift of lockpicks held through bars. He gave her hands a squeeze before he released her.

"But Toussaint—you are here! You made it out!" he said, then grimaced at his own sentimentality. What Henry's man had to think of him. Well, let him bear tales back to the station-house. It did not matter anymore if they thought him mad. 

"You must tell me all!"

"But monsieur—are you not to rest? I know there were beds prepared for you."

Impatiently, Javert shook his head. "I will do without for a little longer. M. Fauchelevent is with his daughter; I cannot intrude in such a moment."

He looked at her, and remembered the last time he had spoken to her in this house. Was it as strange for her as it was for him to return here?

"Are you well? You must tell me what happened. Did you escape? Was it you who told Fauchelevent's daughter—"

"Oh no, monsieur!" Now a spark of life returned to Toussaint's weary eyes, and she raised her hands, still red and worn from her labor in Claquesous' kitchens.

"Imagine, monsieur! Imagine I returned here because I did not know where else to go, and I found madame in the study, and there were books and maps everywhere, and madame was so angry because the inspector she talked to did not believe what she had found!"

"She found the reason Claquesous wanted the house, of course," Javert mumbled, and Toussaint gave him a sharp look.

"She had all these maps, monsieur. Maps and old certificates and documents. She knew—after that terrible murder, monsieur, she knew something was wrong with the house, and then of course M. Fauchelevent vanished."

Javert looked down the corridor and wondered which room held that treasure trove of information. Even now, weary and exhausted as he was, his fingers itched with the need to trace tunnels and quarries and caves and devise a plan to flush his game from the darkness until he was on the scent of Claquesous once more.

"She showed them to the police, of course," he said, and Toussaint nodded.

"They did not believe her. That's what she said. But you know madame, she is very smart, and truly, who would have more reason to prevail than a daughter whose father has been taken by these villains? She led the inspector straight to where she said the maps showed a tunnel—and there _was_ a tunnel.”

It took a while for the full story to be unraveled from Toussaint's hesitant recollection. She had come here only a day past—Javert was stunned once more to realize that one day ago, they had still been locked underground, facing torture and death—and had arrived in the midst of chaos and grief. Valjean's portress had immediately sent a letter after walking up the stairs to find her renter's room empty and broken into, and ever since, Cosette had made it her duty to harry Henry's men into action.

Javert could barely believe the extensive system of old tunnels and quarries when Toussaint led him into Cosette's study—the young Baron's study, he supposed, although it was clear that Cosette's fear and obstinate determination had taken over the reins. While Pontmercy had tried in vain to appeal to the police for more men and more searches, Cosette had by some streak of luck—or perhaps what remnants of paranoia Valjean must have managed to instill in her after all—connected the murder and the vanishing of her father with the inquiries into the house.

"You see, father always said the garden was mine, and that I should go and play," Cosette said when she joined him in the study at last, pulling forward a map that showed crisscrossing lines and streets and houses. "So I played in the garden, and ran and sang, and I thought myself in a fairy tale. We had secret doors, did you know that? Oh yes, a door in the wall that only a secret mechanism could open; a large gate that was always closed and never used; a hidden corridor, an abandoned grotto! How intriguing all these things were, and I loved them, and played for hours and thought up a hundred different stories. So here, you see, Inspector, is our house. And there, this long line—"

"The secret corridor," Javert supplied, and she gave him a sharp look.

"So you know of it! I wonder, will you ever tell me how you met father? But never mind now. You know the corridor—"

"I have been there." Javert dragged his finger along the line that led from the Rue de Babylone to the house, following the corners it made around the fields and gardens that hid the small path from all eyes. “Here is your grotto. And—”

"Yes. Now you see, monsieur!" Cosette smiled at him with a fierce pride. "That is what I found during one of those long nights when I could not sleep from fear for father. I looked at all the maps and plans and documents I could find, and here it was. What is that line that leads to this grotto?"

"It is not the corridor or the street." Javert's fingertip followed the black path that led from the grotto straight through two gardens and crossed streets and fields at random. "Oh!" he said, eyes narrowing as he became aware of other, similar lines. One of them led to the part of the garden where he knew Valjean's little shack was placed. "They are tunnels."

"They are, monsieur!" Cosette's smile was white, gleaming teeth bared in a gesture that seemed strangely familiar, although Javert could not quite say what it reminded him off. “Father had no use for that grotto; I was enamored with it. It holds nothing but piles of firewood and crates now, but if you explore behind all that has been stacked up there, you will find at the rear of the grotto a small, hidden mechanism just like the one that opens the door to the corridor. After Toussaint arrived with her tale of what had been done to father and you, I told Inspector Henry to bring his men and meet me there. He did not want to come, you see. Oh, I know he was very worried when you vanished, monsieur, but he said he could not lead a witchhunt following the fancy of a girl. He did not say it in so many words, monsieur, but I understood that neither he nor his superiors believed anything of what I said.”

“But he came?” Javert asked, imagining the reaction of Gisquet to such a thing—Henry had a soft heart, and would not let a beautiful woman endanger herself. Following such a plea, Henry would come, and tell no one about it.

“He came, with only two men. And yet they arrived just when two villains broke into father's house!” 

Javert could not suppress the heat of satisfaction that flooded him as he imagined the scene: Henry silent and still, waiting in the shadows as two crooks broke into the house, completely unaware of how their plan had led them right into a trap. And then the moment when Henry would throw the door wide open and stride inside, his gun at the ready with two men by his side while the villains stared, dumb-struck and trapped!

A grand scene that was, and although he felt the familiar sting of losing the moment of success to Henry, he begrudgingly told himself that Henry deserved his moment of fame—especially when he had acted without the commissaire's orders by following such a strange lead, and trusting such talk of secret grottos and tunnels.

Javert looked at Cosette again. There, beneath the sharp light of triumph in her eyes, he saw a weariness that reminded him of—Valjean, he thought, and then nearly smiled. Not so unlike, these two, although she, at least, had sense enough to make use of the police and stop her father's useless martyrdom. Despite the flush of her cheeks and the gleam of her eyes, there was a gray tinge to her skin, and he wondered when she had last slept.

Would Valjean be pleased if he saw her worry and fear for him? For not everything was over, Javert realized and felt the weight of sorrow settle on his shoulders once more. There was the threat of Claquesous—though if Javert was denounced to the Prefect for his unsavory desires, he supposed it would make no difference in the long run. How much time would he have left without that sordid truth spread? It would be but a final reason for Gisquet to have him dismissed at last. Perhaps all that was left to him now was to act faster than Claquesous, and resign from his post first...

“Forgive me. Father is asleep, and you must be just as weary,” Cosette said, breaking through his thoughts. Javert blinked, and then realized that it took effort to focus on her.

“There is a bed prepared for you. We can talk some more tomorrow.”

Instinct made Javert try to protest—dimly he thought that he should at least return to his own rooms. He could not sleep in this home, he could not—

Cosette's hand closed around his. He stared at her slender, pale fingers.

“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for father, Inspector.” Cosette's voice was suddenly rough with tears. Javert stared at her hand, slim and elegant against his own, and heard once more a voice beg, _Have pity on me, Monsieur Javert._

“You must not thank me. Not ever,” he forced out. He could not draw his hand away. He thought suddenly of how easy it would be to leave if he told her the truth. She would be glad to see him gone. She would understand that he had no place here.

He swallowed, so tired that he was nearly swaying on his feet. He thought of how pale Valjean's face had been, of those lips against his own, bitter with tears. What sort of monster was he, to keep asking for this from a man who had a home here, a family, all the respect and love he deserved?

“I will sleep,” he heard himself agreeing, “at least until we hear from the commissaire. Madame, if there are news, if there is... you must...”

“We will wake you in case something happens,” she said and smiled at him. Yet even when he found himself led to a spare room by Toussaint at last, he could not forget the weight of her hand in his own, or the sight of Fantine at his feet.

#

When he woke, for a long moment he did not know where he was. He was surrounded by softness and warmth, and his exhausted body was comfortable. Then he sat up in panic as everything came rushing back in—only to find that there were no bars, no cold stone or questions asked by the whip.

Instead, the sun fell in through the curtain that covered most of the window, and for a minute, he allowed himself to look at the ray of light as it shifted on the blanket.

Was it morning? Late afternoon? Had he slept for an hour or all day and night? He could not say. The absence of danger was unsettling, as though his body had not yet accepted that he was safe but feared that any moment, Claquesous' voice would appear from behind the curtain.

He shuddered at the thought, and then, as if to banish it, made himself quickly rise to wash and dress once more.

Someone had filled the washstand and laid out clean clothes for him. They did not fit well, but they were serviceable—most importantly, they were clean, and so Javert soon found himself walking silently through the empty corridors of the Gillenormand home once more. 

There was no one outside Valjean's room. For a moment, fear gripped his heart—but then he thought that he must have indeed slept for a long time. Doubtlessly Henry had recalled all those men to give their reports on the events of the past days. Perhaps even Claquesous had been trapped with his men by now.

Javert bared his teeth for a silent laugh. No. No, Claquesous would have escaped, even had they found and transported him to La Force. Gisquet would not allow it, not when Claquesous had been working for him. Unless, perhaps, the man had become too much of a liability—

Javert clenched his jaw. No, there was nothing to be done. If it was true that Claquesous' father was a man of influence and wealth, Gisquet would not raise a single finger against his son, least of all to protect Javert.

Bitterly, he contemplated whether Claquesous had had Gisquet's approval for imprisoning him—Gisquet would have killed two birds with one stone. 

The thought was sobering, especially as it brought with it the conviction of the next step Javert had to take. How could he work for Gisquet when there was no justice at all in allowing a man like Claquesous to walk free? How many others had escaped justice for similar reasons?

Javert took a deep breath, then deliberately set those thoughts aside. He would deal with such things later. For now, he needed—he faltered, then made himself follow the thought to its end. He needed Valjean. Yes, there was no denying it. He could not flee again. He needed to see Valjean and to talk to him. It would not matter what happened after, but he needed to reassure himself that Valjean was safe and well.

Javert did not knock. He felt a pang of conscience as he opened the door very softly to slip inside, but he told himself that it was so that he would not wake Valjean, should he be asleep.

The room was quiet. The curtains were still drawn. Enough light fell in that he could make out the figure on the bed that still seemed to be asleep. There was another moment of remorse as he stole inside—it seemed something very sordid to him, to steal into a resting man's room to watch him sleep. 

And yet, had he not done worse than simply watch in the days past? But everything seemed different all of a sudden. The despair and the need for his touch that had led him to press himself against Valjean before, exploring the broad shoulders and strong arms with greedy hands, were gone, only to be replaced by a quiet shame.

It should not have happened, he told himself, but even so, his heart ached with the memory of how those hands had held his face. Valjean had been lost, and there had been no one but Javert—but now, they were no longer lost. Now Valjean was asleep in a room that had been prepared for him by his daughter, filled with comforts and love. There was a drawing of the garden on the mantelpiece that must have been drawn by Cosette; there were a handful of well-read books on a stand by the bed, and he recognized atop it the volume on Bougainville's travels that Valjean had read to him in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé at times.

These were all things Valjean should have. Again Javert felt out of place, remembering the cold stone of the cave, the anguish in Valjean's eyes as he strained against the chains and yet could not reach him. Had it been but a nightmare? Or was _this_ the dream that could never be reality?

Valjean moved, and Javert shook his head at himself. The way they had spent the past days together was no reason to intrude like this—and yet, stranger still than waking safe and warm was the way he had slept and woken without Valjean by his side. Perhaps Valjean too would seek such reassurance when he woke. Or maybe, Valjean would be content with what he had. Either way, Javert knew that he could not leave before he had found out.

He took no precaution to be silent this time. Javert's steps were deliberate, and while he did not seek to wake him, his steps were firm enough to let Valjean know that he was not alone, should he have woken.

From a gap between the curtains, a ray of sunlight fell in. It did not reach the bed, but created golden patterns on the floor. Javert stepped through them, marveling once more at the quality of the light, and then turned his attention to Valjean again. 

He seemed to still be asleep—but his shoulders were tense, and Javert exhaled deeply.

“Good morning, Valjean,” he said, and then bit back a confused laugh when Valjean seemed to relax before he opened his eyes and turned towards him. How strange that his presence should give Valjean ease!

“I do not actually know if it is morning,” he then said and looked towards the curtains once more. “But I woke and could not fall asleep again. Forgive me for waking you.”

“No apologies are needed,” Valjean murmured. He sat up slowly and with a wince, but Javert was relieved to see that no blood had seeped through the bandages to stain his shirt when he pushed back the covers a little and reached out for the water that had been placed on the nightstand.

“It must be early yet, the house is so quiet,” Javert said, watching as Valjean drank deeply. He nodded towards the curtains. “Do you mind if I..?”

“No, please. The sunlight is welcome.” Valjean gave him a small, uncertain smile, and Javert quickly turned his attention towards the curtain, glad to have a task to hide the trembling of his hands. How strange the need to kiss him seemed, now that bright sunlight fell into the room and illuminated the wallpaper and the crucifix on the wall!

Perhaps he should ask for forgiveness for what had happened between them—but Javert found that he could not. 

“Valjean, I...” He could hardly bear to look at him. Valjean's face was lined from sleep, soft and unguarded, and his hair disheveled. He wore only his nightshirt, and Javert was acutely aware of how unseemly it was to force his presence on this man in such a state—and yet he ached once more for the firmness of Valjean's body against his own, that warm hand against his cheek.

Valjean looked up at him. He did not speak. Javert worried at the cuff of the shirt that was a little too short for his arms.

“Are you well? Does the wound ache?” he at last blurted out, and then chided himself for it. “Forgive me, I must seem so foolish to you. The truth is that I woke and I could not fall back asleep, and I... I felt that I needed to see you. Just so that I would know that you are safe.”

“It feels like a dream, doesn't it,” Valjean said after a moment. He held out his hand. It was clean, the grime and sweat of the past days washed away, but there were still bruises and scratches covering the skin, now illuminated in the golden sunlight that fell in from the window. Javert fought the need to kneel down by the side of the bed and kiss the bruised knuckles.

Instead, he exhaled deeply. He wondered if it would be easier to speak if he turned away, but he could not. Valjean's hair shone in the light, a pale halo, and he wanted to press his lips to every bruise and wound and murmur reassurance against his skin. Instead, he said: “It is a damn miracle, all of it. Valjean, I do not know how much you remember, but your daughter saved you. She saved all of us. Without her, Henry would never have led his men down into the Catacombs.”

Valjean's smile vanished at the name of his daughter, and he looked around at the room he found himself in, as if becoming aware of it for the first time.

“Cosette...” he murmured, and Javert, desperate to wipe that sudden onset of despondency from his face, found himself launching into a retelling of the events he had been able to cobble together from what he had heard from Toussaint and Valjean's daughter. There were still many questions he had no answer for—the most pressing, of course, that of Claquesous himself, and his current fate. But now that the house's connection to the old tunnels and quarries was well-known, he thought that Claquesous would have lost all interest in Valjean. And if he wanted revenge—certainly he would focus his attention on Javert then. No, these were not fears that he should share with Valjean.

“I hope you will remember this,” he said, more softly. “A daughter who loves you enough to walk right into the lion's den, bold and unafraid.”

Valjean raised the water to his lips again, his hand trembling a little as he drank. “I cannot bear the thought of her close to that terrible place,” he said. Javert watched as Valjean flinched and seemed to grow smaller before his eyes. “There; you see once more that my past can only ever lead her into shadows...”

Boldly, Javert reached out. Valjean's skin was warm and dry, and he dared to lightly rub the pad of his thumb over Valjean's hand, feeling the unevenness of his bruised knuckles. 

“You brought her up to be unafraid. Perhaps too unafraid,” he added dryly, “but see how she loves you. Jean Valjean, you old fool, I do not know what you were playing at, but that girl would follow you into Hell. Would it truly be such a hardship to spare her the journey and join her in happiness instead?”

Before his eyes, Valjean's face seemed to shutter. He turned his face aside, and Javert looked at where his hand still covered Valjean's. He wanted to kiss it. He thought of the door opening and another observing such an act. How much had he already given away, when even Claquesous had known after such a short time?

And yet, how much could he deny himself Valjean?

He allowed his fingers to slowly, gently trail upwards, until he reached the bandaged wrist. The doctor had given Valjean a way out from the past that had been written on his skin. And that was something Javert would have to talk to Pontmercy about—in time, he thought. There was time for all these things now.

He wanted to kiss Valjean, but he did not dare. In the light of the sun and in the whiteness of the clean linen, the shame was too great.

“Valjean,” he said very quietly. The room was silent. Specks of dust danced in the golden sunlight between their faces. Javert suddenly became very aware of the fact that Valjean wore nothing but his nightshirt, and the tranquility of the room settled heavily on his shoulders. The situation was strangely familiar, and yet it confused him, for he had never seen Valjean so unguarded before.

“So _you_ used to sit by my side,” he murmured at last when he realized where that sweet familiarity came from. Those weeks when he had rested and healed under the eyes of Valjean, wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed and dreaming with the sound of his voice speaking prayers.

Would that he could do the same for Valjean. But Valjean had his daughter.

What could Javert's role be in such a place? Everything in this room had been carefully prepared for Valjean's comfort. Javert held no pretensions that he could return to Valjean some of the care he had received. Even had he wanted to—and he did want to, he admitted to himself, thinking once more of how Valjean's quiet presence had surrounded and soothed him even during the worst days—that was not his place. Cosette was Valjean's daughter, and certainly it was the right of family to comfort and care in such a situation. Javert was... He knew no words for what he could be, save insults and derision and memories of men using power and pain as leverage against others.

He was not that. He knew not what he could be. 

"Have I ever thanked you for what you did for me?" He could not smile when Valjean finally faced him, but he reached out, daring, and brushed his fingers against a lock of white hair. "I wonder, do you remember that moment when you bent over me? Your hair touched my face, and I..."

He fell silent as he searched for words. "I do not know how to speak of these things. How did it happen? All my life, the path was so clear. Then the path was gone, but you did not let me drown. And then..." He swallowed. "To grow so old, and then, for the first time, feel that soft touch, your hair against my face, and want... and think..."

Valjean was watching him. There was a light flush on his face. With yearning Javert thought of how he would have bent forward to press his lips to Valjean's, were they still trapped below the earth. Such a thing had been easy in the darkness, when despair gave him courage. Now...

His heart beat in his chest. Valjean was still watching him, but now some of the weariness had vanished from his face, and there was a warmth in his eyes. Slowly, Javert let the strand of hair slip from his fingers, and, daring once more, rested his hand on Valjean's instead. Valjean breathed a soft sound—of encouragement maybe, or contentment, and then curled his fingers around Javert's. The touch was light and not improper at all, and yet it sent a shiver of confused desire through Javert.

Then there was the sound of steps outside. Javert clutched his hand back to his chest as though he had been burned when the door opened and Cosette came in with Nicolette bearing a tray.

It was too late to talk. Javert was embarrassed to be caught in the situation as it was, although he hoped that the hardships they had been through would explain why he had felt the need to steal into Valjean's bedroom in such a way.

His throat was tight. Cosette was gentle and gracious and invited him to stay and share her father's breakfast, but he could not bear to look at Valjean in her presence, especially when Valjean was flushed as well and would not meet his eyes.

To think that he had nearly given in to his nature and kissed Valjean right there, in the house of his daughter! It was one thing to love the man—love him more than was proper, even, for Javert thought that might be forgiven since Valjean had assured him of his own affection, down there in the darkness. But certainly any love had to be chaste here in his daughter's house. What had come over Javert, to be carried away like a schoolboy, when even in his youth he had known to follow the rules of propriety?

Javert excused himself, still embarrassed, although he was relieved by the way Valjean's eyes followed him when he made his way to the door. Valjean bade him to return after he had taken his own breakfast, and Javert gladly made that promise. He was not quite certain whether it was hope or fear that made his heart beat faster at the thought that they might have the room to themselves again by then.

A letter had arrived by the time Javert had drunk his coffee. It still made him feel ill at ease to be waited on, but he was grateful that due to their injuries, Nicolette served him his breakfast in his own room. He was not certain whether he would have been able to bear the company of M. Gillenormand again.

The lash marks on his back still ached, but he too had been left a tin of salve by the doctor, and a small bottle of laudanum which Javert refused to use for now. He had not forgotten Claquesous' threat; Javert was yet too afraid to allow himself that deep, dreamless sleep he still remembered.

The letter was written in Henry's hand and quickly summed up the state of the case after Javert had left the Catacombs. Claquesous, Javert learned with no true surprise, was not behind bars. Most of his men had been surrounded and captured in one of the caves. Claquesous had been among them, or so it had been thought. But at last, when handcuffs had closed around wrists and all escape had been made impossible, Henry had ripped off the metal mask from the man in his cloak of black—only to find a familiar face. It had been a thief who'd served time in La Force three times during the past decade alone, whom Javert and Henry had returned to justice themselves during the past year. He had escaped several months ago and had not been heard of again.

The man could not be Claquesous, for he possessed neither the size nor the height of that dreaded shadow, and had indeed been safely shut away in La Force while many of Patron-Minette's vilest plots had taken place.

Claquesous had once more vanished into the shadows.

Javert's stomach twisted with helpless rage as well as a new, unsettling fear. On the one hand, there was the old fear for Valjean—but also, Javert realized with a great deal of trouble, there was the entirely new realization that he had become susceptible to blackmail.

His stomach churned at the thought of Gisquet confronting him with Claquesous' lies. No, not lies, he corrected himself. It was a troubling feeling to imagine Chabouillet's reaction to what was at heart nothing but the truth. Of course, a man could make up excuses for such a thing. Claquesous had connections enough that Gisquet would be glad to use his slander to get rid of Javert at long last. And Chabouillet would not protect Javert—why should he? 

He thrust a hand into his hair and pulled at it even as he paced in agitation. He could not see what there was to do. Resignation from his post—an event he dreaded, even though more and more it seemed unavoidable to him. Very well then, yes; he could do that. And yet, to do so in shame! To have left not even that shred of dignity that they would remember his work with approval and envy in the station-house; to have them instead talk about him as Claquesous had, tread any success, all his work into the mud and invent sordid tales to—

He rubbed his face and snarled at the window. Claquesous had driven him into a corner in his own way. Very well. He would have to play Claquesous' game for now. And perhaps he was afraid for no reason. Perhaps Claquesous was long gone, vanished underground in yet another filthy sewer with the other rats of his acquaintance.

What remained, for now, was to make sense of the pieces of the puzzle yet before him. And for as long as he had this post, he could make certain that Valjean was safe, and that there would be no untoward questions asked about the past of Ultime Fauchelevent and his house with the secret passages.

#

Two days later, Javert found himself staring doubtfully into the entrance of a cave once more. They had descended onto Valjean's quiet garden and secret passageway with a handful of men, and it took Javert a moment to recognize the grotto that had once seemed so out of place, a site of youthful folly or romantic ideals that had been long since abandoned by those who had dreamed in it. It had served as a storage room to firewood and crates of bottles when he had seen it last.

Javert wondered whether those had been Valjean's—the sight of dusty bottles woke a sudden longing to spend a companionable evening by his side, as friends or family might choose to do. He had never known such a thing; he doubted Valjean had either. He had been reticent in Montreuil. And even now, the desire for such a thing seemed ludicrous to Javert. All the same, he missed the quiet companionship of the days after Valjean had pulled him from the river. More than ever he wished that he had appreciated it properly then; more than ever, he wished that he could take Valjean's place now, sit by his side and read to him or simply cherish his quiet presence.

He had visited Valjean every day since they had escaped Claquesous' subterranean empire. Valjean was still convalescing in the room Cosette had prepared for him, and he bore it well enough, at least when Javert was present.

And yet, even though they had both worked so hard for escape, he could not help but long for that passion and despair that had driven them into each other's arms in the caves.

A hundred times Javert had stared at Valjean and ached with the need to kiss him again, to touch that hair and remind himself of its softness. But always, there was the intruding awareness of just where they were: the fine, heavy furniture, the clean linen, the sunlight that fell in from the garden, and beyond the walls of Valjean's room, a house filled with people who could not know of the strange hunger that still lived in Javert's breast. 

Even now, he told himself that he could learn to live without Valjean's touch, as long as he had his friendship. All that mattered was that Valjean was alive and well.

Henry gestured at where stacks of firewood had been shifted aside to reveal the interior of the grotto, interrupting Javert's thoughts. 

"There, you see. Back there is where the tunnel starts."

Javert lighted one of the lamps they had brought and moved into the grotto, disregarding the worn, fanciful decorations. Instead, he studied the opening at the back with curiosity. It had been hidden behind yet another door connected to a secret mechanism and covered by a tapestry. He wondered whether Valjean had known of this all along. Had this been one final way of escape, should Javert have betrayed his trust after all?

Impatiently, he shook his head. No, not only were these thoughts unbecoming, they served no purpose. Could he blame Valjean, had he sought to escape again?

"We sent another group down this morning, but no trace of anyone," Henry said as he followed. Together, they stared down into the darkness. A narrow, circling stair led downwards. The walls were blackened from the soot of torches. 

Javert sighed deeply. "He might still be hiding down there. And if he is..."

“If it's true what you said, we will never find him.” Henry spoke bluntly, without a smile. "De Thury mapped the Catacombs. De Thury mapped the old quarries. Javert, if it's true—speaking to Gisquet of your suspicions would be suicide. You know that as well as I. Come, man, keep quiet. Don't give Gisquet a reason to get rid of you. Keep your head down and—"

"You know as well as I do that none of this would have come to pass had Claquesous not vanished that night, after we already had him in the carriage with the rest of Patron-Minette. And how do you think he got out of that?"

Henry did not answer, and Javert stared at the stone before them that led down into the darkness. It made him shiver to imagine it: the long, narrow passageways, the corridors and crossroads, the maze deep beneath the earth where even now Claquesous might be crouching in the dark like a rat. He could be close even now. He could be hiding just out of reach of the light of their lamps, waiting...

A shudder ran through Javert as he imagined Valjean returning to this place to live here. The thought of kissing him in the garden in the bright sunlight suddenly transformed into something terrifying when Claquesous could be spying on them any moment. 

Javert pulled wearily at his whiskers. Would Valjean even want to return? With these connections to their place of torment revealed, it would be all too understandable if Valjean chose to stay far away.

“Do you want to look at the trapdoor in the shack as well?” Henry asked, and Javert grimaced before he could think better of it.

“No need to act as though that is still my choice,” he said, without bothering to hide the bitterness. “You're the one in command. I'm little better than a spy, at your disposal.”

“Javert...” Henry hesitated. 

Determined, Javert closed the door that led down into the tunnels and drew the tapestry over it once more.

“Another time,” he then said, feeling churlish. Did he have to anger what few men might still be on his side? _Think of Valjean,_ he told himself again. There was almost no power left to him now. If Chabouillet had found a hint in the reports that might make him look into Valjean's past, then what would he do...?

“Gisquet's not interviewing the vicomte de Thury about this,” Henry said as they walked out of the grotto. Javert took a deep breath and looked up at the sun.

“In truth, it does not surprise me. Gisquet is—he is not pleased with you." Henry gave him a shrewd look. "But then, Gisquet's position is not as secure as he would like. Many spoke out against his orders last year—even the king, Javert. Keep your head down for a while. Deal with thieves in the market. In a year's time, Gisquet might be gone, and he might have forgotten about you."

There was a crow cawing somewhere in the distance. The sun shone onto the small, secret passageway, warming the stones of the wall that blocked all view of what might lie beyond. Gardens, Javert's mind supplied, for he had studied Cosette's map well. Further north, fields. How quiet it would have been here. The seasons changed, and Valjean lived hidden away behind those walls and gates. Almost Javert was envious of it now. It was a thing that could not be, but how sweet to contemplate spending his years here, hidden away with Valjean, doing his work quietly and without arousing interest only to return home to take Valjean's hand. They could watch the leaves unfurl and change color and fall.

He could think of nothing more tempting.

"Of course, it cannot be," he muttered, then fell silent again when he realized that Henry was still watching him. For a moment, he felt regret rise. Henry was a good man. But he could not trust Henry with any of his secrets, and could not give him any explanation for what had changed.

"Thank you," he said at last, and turned away when Henry gestured towards where the passageway led to Valjean's garden. No. Javert did not think he could bear it to sift through Valjean's life in the company of these men.

"I am glad for your concern. Well. I will have to talk to Chabouillet regardless. Some things cannot—"

Again he bit off the rest of the sentence, unsettled and angry with himself. None of this made much sense. Was this the person he had become? Doubt still ate at him, even when he had thought that he had long since left it behind. Had he not made his decision a thousand times over in the caves? It was too late for doubt or regret.

Perhaps it would be a relief to step back, to let go of that part of him that had for so long found joy in knowing nothing but duty. He took another deep breath. It would be a relief—but there were other things that needed doing. And if it meant going begging to Chabouillet, well, there were worse things.

The lash marks on his shoulders still ached, but he forced himself to show no sign of discomfort as he parted from Henry, choosing to make his way back to the Rue de Babylone through the empty passageway.


	21. The Two-Fold Bond of Saving a Man's Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baron Pontmercy and Inspector Javert conspire.

"I am surprised, monsieur—are you certain you do not want to—"

"I will visit M. Fauchelevent later," Javert said, not quite able to rein in his impatience. He was meeting with Marius in the study that had been commandeered by his wife; now, most of the maps had been taken away to the station-house. Javert stepped towards the window, refusing the seat Marius had offered. Rude, perhaps—but this visit was of a personal nature, and he thought there was no need for pretense between them.

After Javert had stared out at the garden for a while, Marius quietly said, "I thought you were dead. I thought he had shot you. I tried to save you, monsieur, for I remembered your name—but as soon as I stood, the shot resounded."

"He shot into the air," Javert said and turned at last. He studied the boy. Still a little sickly—or perhaps the paleness and uncertainty came from being faced with a ghost. "Let me reassure you, I am quite alive. M. Fauchelevent knew me; when he saw me there, he demanded my life so that he could release me, once we were out of sight."

Marius watched him pace. "When my wife mentioned your name... Monsieur, you cannot possibly being to understand what I—"

"He saved me. In fact, he saved me twice that very same night; but no matter. My life is of little concern here. I have come to inquire about a different thing. I have," and here Javert's jaw clenched, "I have come to beg your help."

Marius sat back, his eyes wide with surprise. Javert pushed onward. 

"I was led to believe that you know about certain parts of M. Fauchelevent's past that he preferred to keep secret from his daughter?"

Marius took a deep breath, his facing paling even more. Then he stood and approached Javert, although his apprehension was all too apparent to Javert from the way his hands were slightly shaking.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you are an inspector of the police, and yet you are a friend of M. Fauchelevent. You are also... You are also aware how I was wounded.”

Javert grimaced with distaste. He still did not like the reminder of how he had helped conceal the truth, but the boy was right. He knew all these things. More important was that he knew these things and yet had kept all these secrets. 

“I am aware of all of this,” he said curtly. “Speak without fear. I am... I am the friend of Jean Valjean. Although I am certain I do not deserve his friendship.”

Marius took half a step backwards—but then a smile of relief spread over his face. “Then it is true. Then you know everything! Monsieur, I hardly know what to say—he will not let me apologize, tells me I have nothing to apologize for, when—you see, I did not know who carried me from that place! He comes to me and tells me his name is Jean Valjean, that my dear Cosette is not his daughter, but that he is a convict, and that he has to leave!”

Marius' cheeks now flushed a hectic red. “You are his friend; you know him, monsieur, and I know now, but—I did not know then. The horror I felt at the thought of my Cosette in the company of a convict!”

Javert gazed at Marius, taking in his face averted in shame, his trembling lashes, and thought again of that room in the cellar, the way Valjean had faithfully made that journey every day and returned to his home with ever-growing weariness.

“It is because of you he only saw her in that cellar room.” If his voice had grown cold, Marius took no visible note of it.

“Yes, monsieur—and worse. Much worse. I told him he could not see her anymore. I took steps... Oh, I am ashamed now, but I have no defense. He, who brought her up! And yet I did all I could to make him feel unwelcome, and to distract Cosette from his absence. But you must understand, I thought he was a convict; I thought I had heard him shoot you, an agent of the Police—”

“And had not your friends,” Javert said dryly, “ shot more at that barricade?” At Marius' silence his lips drew up into what might have passed as a smile for another man. “But never mind that. You see that I live.”

"There is no way I can ever make up for what he did for me; I do not deserve his pardon, and yet—"

"He will give it all too easily," Javert finished, suddenly tired. There was a great rage in him still. He remembered the way Valjean had wept in his garden and the way he had hung in the chains, his back bloody, surrendering in despair to a death he thought he deserved: ready to die to protect his daughter and her husband, who had treated him in such an unconscionable way.

"Well, monsieur. In that case there is not much for us to talk about. I do not come with recriminations, but in fact as a petitioner." It was easier to speak the words than Javert had thought it would be. He had always been proud of making his own way. He had earned his position by his hard work and virtue, having no need to beg for favors.

"The matter is very simple, monsieur." He kept his hands behind his back, forcing himself to hold Pontmercy's gaze. "I am out of favor; my superiors distrust me. It is yet to be seen whether I will even be able to keep what position I now have. And—"

"But you followed M. Fauchelevent into the caves! You were captured, you suffered, you helped him escape! Monsieur, if you desire it, I shall write a letter to your superior; I cannot possibly make up for what you have done for us by returning M. Fauchelevent—"

Javert forced back a bitter smile. "You are gracious, monsieur. But in truth, I fear it would make no difference—neither to the Prefect nor to me. No, my plea is another. You see, monsieur—Jean Valjean needs a pardon. I have little money; what I have, I would gladly give, but it would not suffice to bring this matter to anyone's attention. I have no one's favor, but certainly your grandfather has friends. And there is the matter of the wealth of M. Madeleine, which is now yours. He saved your life, monsieur. And I beg you now to help me return the life to him that he deserves."

Marius had paled even more. He shook his head, and Javert, who had spent the past few days thinking this over and over again, felt rage and despair well up in him. Pontmercy was the only chance to bring this about. He could not go begging to Gisquet. Gisquet might choose to destroy Valjean, for no other reason than Javert's perpetual obstruction of his plans.

Chabouillet too was out of the question. Chabouillet had friends—but Javert had already caused him enough troubles during the past year. Javert did not think he could help, not when whatever he might do would certainly come to Gisquet's attention.

"You owe this man your life—" Javert began, choking back the humiliation of having to beg this ingrate, who had not even had the sense to fire the gun he had been given. But before he could continue, Marius lifted his hand to silence him.

"You misunderstand, inspector! I had, in fact, offered to look into a pardon as soon as he revealed his past to me—but he denied me."

Javert laughed out loud, then sobered at the look Marius was giving him. "Yes. Of course. Of course he would," he muttered and began pacing. "Good heavens, but that man is intent to play the martyr. Well, no more, do you hear me?"

"Monsieur?" Marius inquired, uncertain. Javert gave him a grim smile.

"We do not need his approval. If you would seek to bring such a thing about, in whatever way it takes, monsieur—rest assured that I will make it plain to him that he has no choice but to accept it. He might think that he has no need or no right to be pardoned, but he will change his mind once he realizes that this is what is demanded of him to have his daughter's company.”

Pontmercy did not look quite convinced, but he was obviously glad to leave that part of the plan in Javert's hands. And Javert, who still remembered the way Valjean had shackled him to life on the bridge, thought grimly that he would do the same for Valjean, if he had to.

How strange. Had Valjean even for one moment suspected that such a thing might happen when he dove after him into the water? That by saving a man's life, he had irrevocably chained their souls together? It was a two-fold bond. Maybe Valjean had not known it in that moment. Maybe he had preferred to pretend that he did not know. But by now, certainly Valjean knew better than to deny it. 

Javert would never ask for something Valjean might not be willing to give. Even Valjean's friendship was an unexpected blessing he did not deserve. But Valjean deserved the peace of mind a pardon could grant. It would not solve much, Javert thought. The man had not even been able to tell his own daughter—and of course Javert did not know her well, and could hardly know what pain such revelations might bring.

Still, Valjean had known himself hunted for most of his life. Javert remembered that secret passage and imagined the loneliness of a man who chose to escape the eyes of his neighbors in such a way. Javert, too, now knew the terror of flight, the way fear had tightened around his chest and his throat until he could not breathe, heart racing against his ribs. Once, he'd taken delight in imagining Valjean driven into a corner. He'd gloated at the thought of closing his jaws around his trembling prey.

Now the thought of Valjean knowing such fear sickened him. Never again, Javert thought. He could not give Valjean much, but he wanted to give him this one thing. The peace of mind which that paper could bring: falling asleep without the constant terror at unexpected sounds outside. No more nightmares of boots on his stairs. No more dread overcoming him at the sight of a stranger. 

It was a small thing, and Javert knew Valjean would protest the effort, but for all that it would make little difference, and not restore a lifetime spent in fear, it had to be done. 

In any case, the matter was out of his hands now. Pontmercy would use his own connections to see what could be done, and meanwhile, Javert would return to spending his time trying to morosely piece together what he knew of Claquesous' plans. The case was out of his hands as well, of course—he might have once gone to Chabouillet to make inquiries, but there was no use annoying his patron further.

 

Chabouillet seemed glad, in a way, that Javert had uncovered the ploy. Chabouillet was _not_ glad that it was a ploy Gisquet was involved in, and was even less inclined to attract his own superior's ire over it. He sent one letter—a stiff, formal thing, and Javert thought that there, between the lines, was a sentiment not unlike Henri's. _Wait. Be patient. Keep your silence._ And it made sense: a prefect who had already aroused the king's and the public's ill-will in such a way would certainly not remain for very much longer.

Chabouillet, of course, intended to retain his position and wait for a more fortuitous successor. Javert could certainly do the same. Under a different prefect, Chabouillet could use Javert's success in freeing Valjean and uncovering the mushroom farms to restore his former position to him.

How fine that would be to be inspector once more: to have men like Thénardier fear him, to have the power, perhaps, to lock up men like Claquesous and protect men like Valjean.

Javert was quite certain that he should be worrying about these things. Instead, as once before, apart from these questions that concerned Valjean's well-being so intimately, he ignored most of the rumors and fears concerning the station-house and his own future. He visited Valjean every day. The visits were strangely tense, and often he wanted to run from them, his chest aching from the words contained within that he could not speak—that he feared he might never speak again.

But how could he touch that soft hair under the eyes of Nicolette, or think of kissing Valjean's lips with his own daughter in the room?

The visits were torture in this respect. Still, it was a joy to sit with Valjean by the open window, to listen to the birds by his side, to spend half an hour allowing Valjean to quietly, slowly read to him.

It was strange to remember how close they had grown during those days when they had had nothing but each other. To have that taken from him now was a continual ache, and yet, how could such a distance between them be bridged?

There was very little to distract Javert from his thoughts. He was not yet fit to return to work, although the lash marks on his back had healed well enough that he could manage his daily visits to the bedroom in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. In a week's time, Valjean too was deemed well enough by the doctor to leave his room and go on walks; Javert had twice accompanied him through the garden, his heart beating in his throat at the words that could not be said in this garden. He told himself that it was because M. Gillenormand might be watching from a window, or Basque be at work behind a hedge, but he wondered whether he would ever dare to be as forward as he had been in their cell again, or whether that might have been an effect of their captivity after all.

Maybe that forwardness had been caused by their captivity, but not his feelings for Valjean. Those burned steadily in his heart, so that he felt at peace only when Valjean was near. But the desire. The overwhelming need to rest his hands on Valjean's bare skin...

Perhaps that had been the fear and pain after all. Perhaps, without that despair, he could teach himself to love Valjean as was proper, be no more than the loyal guard dog he deserved.

When the doctor finally declared the gun shot healed well enough that there would be no further danger of an infection, Cosette immediately summoned everyone to gather for dinner that day. Javert was not able to escape her attention either. Before he had even managed to utter a feeble sentence about his own tiredness and still-healing wounds, she clasped his hand in her own and ordered him to come, for the sake of her father. It seemed his daughter's company was no longer entertainment enough for this man who had once again begun to talk of moving out of his bedroom and back to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé.

"That horrible apartment!" she said that evening, laughter in her voice as she bent forward across the table, her eyes full of tenderness as she gazed at Valjean. "And you all alone there! No, father, how would I sleep? And the place from which they kidnapped you, too!"

Javert stiffly ate his soup. They had seated him next to Valjean, who sat next to M. Gillenormand, who was uncharacteristically quiet this evening as he had taken a chill. Javert, who would usually have been relieved to be spared the man's baffling sermons, now painfully missed the noise. At least it would have saved him from the horrible sinking feeling that he was expected to do his part in keeping the conversation going, while he had no idea how such a thing was accomplished.

"I agree, madame," he found himself saying when it became clear that it was his turn to talk. "No, no, do not protest..."

He hesitated a moment, once again struck by the awkwardness of how to address Valjean. Pontmercy might be complicit in obtaining a pardon for him—they had spoken shortly the night before; Marius had looked pale and exhausted, but had assured him that he was confident it could be accomplished. His study had been strewn with letters, and Javert, who had very little faith in the man's capabilities, had for once bitten back a caustic remark. The boy was better suited to letters than pistols anyway, that much was clear to Javert. Pontmercy was not shirking his duties when it came to writing petitions, at least.

Regardless, for now it was out of the question to speak the name Jean Valjean at the table. And even if he had not cared about the reaction of the others that dined with them, he could never do such a thing for Valjean's sake. When the pardon was obtained, he thought that Valjean might speak to Cosette. For now, he could see no way to make Valjean breach such a painful subject.

"They have locked away a good deal of the ruffians, of course," he found himself continuing, as though he had never hesitated. "But even so. There might be more. In any case, it can hardly be pleasant to live there all on your own. Madame, your father might be determined to stay at that place, but Toussaint will not return there, not after what happened."

"The inspector is right, father." Cosette gave Valjean another smile that only barely concealed the worry in her eyes. No, it was out of the question; Javert knew that she would not let Valjean return to loneliness, and he was glad for it. Valjean in turn was still so overwhelmed by the fact that he had been reunited with his daughter, that she called him father again and held his hand and spoke to him with such tenderness, that Javert had seen tears in his eyes on more than one occasion.

All these things should make Javert happy. And he was happy to see Valjean safe and loved. It was as it should be. And yet...

The shadows of the past still loomed in his mind. He thought that they had to loom yet larger in Valjean's.

Some things could not be so easily banished. But Javert had begun to hope that when he held the pardon in his hands, Valjean would allow himself to accept that his daughter loved him, and that he was wanted, and that his presence could do her no harm.

Over the main course, there was talk about Cosette's plans for the garden in the spring. Javert listened, having no opinion about the placement of strawberries and azaleas and rose bushes, but at least Cosette's excitement saved him from the need to contribute to the conversation. As the plates were cleared away and Nicolette brought in the dessert, he found himself turning to Valjean and saying, “You will remember that you promised to show me your garden once.”

The promise had gone quite differently, and he flushed to even allude to it in public in such a way, but Cosette's words had brought up memories of Valjean kneeling amidst those white flowers. Weeping.

“Are there many butterflies in the spring?”

Valjean looked at him, his gaze a little searching. Did he wonder what Javert was up to with his line of questioning? Javert himself could not say. Did Valjean remember the butterflies surrounding him when he had knelt in the garden, and did he recall that it was this moment that Javert had observed? Did he think that Javert was reminding him of what he might have come to think of as a deal? That promise to kiss Javert in the garden where he had once wept, and where Javert had hidden himself from him?

Javert focused on the plate that was placed in front of him. Dessert was a choux pastry: a rich thing of butter and sugar and chocolate. Javert thought that Valjean might never want to kiss him again. He thought of the garden once more, of Valjean's tears. The desire was still there, that need that made his ribs ache as though his heart wanted to break free. It was that old hunger which had resulted in greedy kisses and the animal rutting against Valjean's body. Denying it had been impossible, down there in the dark.

However, they were not in the dark now. 

Javert could not help but feel how very much he had no right to claim this space for himself. Here he sat at the table of the woman whose mother he had once desired to lock up, whose pleas had seemed disdainful, whose plight and illness mattered so little to him that he had not spared a single thought for her well-being when entering that hospital room. No—no, the truth was that he had felt a terrible satisfaction when he had at last been able to shut her up by revealing the terrible truth about Madeleine, and it had mattered little to him that it was this revelation that had killed her.

“There are a great many butterflies and birds,” Valjean said at last, and Cosette took up the cue to tell a story about a friendly robin. Javert put aside his spoon with a heavy breath.

Was Valjean still looking at him? He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to leave this room and never return. He wanted to speak that terrible truth to Cosette: _Madame, it was I who killed your mother._

Valjean had put down his spoon as well, and Javert watched his fingers flex against the table-cloth. His wrists were yet wrapped with thin bandages, salve beneath them. Javert stared at Valjean's fingers; his own hand twitched against his trousers. He wanted to reach out and furtively slip his hand into Valjean's beneath the table. He wanted that reassurance again. Valjean's hand in his. Valjean's hand grasping his shoulder. Valjean's head resting on his thigh as he slept.

Even if they could not have what they had found in that cave, was this not something they might share? Javert stared at the bandages, remembering how Valjean had sought to tend to his own wounds this morning, and how Javert had surprised him and knelt down before him without a word to smooth the salve over the mostly-healed wounds and the old scars alike. Valjean's hand had been warm in his. He had worked deftly, his touch gentle, and all the time, he had thought of nothing but the desire to touch his lips to Valjean's wrist. To kiss the warm, fluttering pulse that would beat the melody of life against his lips until Valjean would sigh and maybe speak. Only a word or two—something foolish, perhaps, or something simple. An affirmation that this was real, that he was alive, that he knew that joy would return in time, and that he would live.

The clinking of plates and cutlery brought Javert back to the present. He lowered his head a little, his face warm, and took hold of his spoon once more to finish dessert in quiet determination.

Valjean did not speak either. Javert listened to how Valjean's own spoon cut with a crunch through the confection of flaky dough and buttery sugar. He licked a smudge of chocolate from his lips. Would Valjean have let him wipe sugar from his lips, had they been alone? Determinedly, he continued until he was finished with his own pastry, barely tasting what he was eating although this was a luxury he would never have indulged in on his own. 

He could not look at Valjean. He wondered if there was sugar on his own lips. He wondered if Valjean was looking at him.

Afterwards, he found himself standing by the fireplace with a glass of wine in his hand. It was a good wine, he thought—of course it was. Cosette would not serve anything but the best for such an occasion. It tasted sour in his mouth, and he had to force himself to swallow as he listened to Marius speak.

“So you see,” Pontmercy said, his cheeks flushed with animation. “I am reassured we will obtain that pardon—there is still the matter of the letter to the secretary, and my grandfather's friend who is the uncle of the current—”

“And a gift of money, I assume?” Javert cut him off, feeling a little sick now as he pondered how easy it would be for Claquesous to employ a similar tactic. 

There had been neither sign nor sound from Claquesous yet. Javert had deliberated for a long time, but then written up a full report—excising all parts about Valjean, of course—and submitted it for Chabouillet's perusal. He thought that Chabouillet might have decided to keep it in his drawer rather than let some of Javert's observations come to the attention of Gisquet. Javert felt a mix of anger and relief at the thought. Had he not always silently condemned such practices? And yet, now such maneuvering might protect him for a while. Not that his heart was with his post any longer. It would be all the same to him, were he dismissed now, save that he was a man of habits and felt a natural aversion to being forced to change them now, so late in his life.

Furthermore, as long as he still held a modicum of power through his station, he could use it to protect Valjean. It was not a lot—but he would hear if someone decided to look up the old case of Jean Valjean again. Anyone who chose to do so would immediately come upon Javert's name, as their lives had aligned again and again ever since Toulon.

And if someone inquired about Javert, Chabouillet would tell him. Might tell him, he thought, suddenly uncertain again. But either way, Chabouillet would need reports from the commissaire, who would in turn give Javert a hint. 

How strange to be dependent at long last on politics when all his life Javert had thought himself above such things due to his unimpeachable service.

“There is the entire fortune of M. Madeleine at our disposal,” Pontmercy said, a little subdued, and Javert knew well why: that former, foolish notion that this was money earned through crime, money the ninny before him had once rejected out of blind pride. Javert resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the reminder.

“I was a fool about many things, monsieur Javert, and you know it. But now that I know the truth, I can think of no nobler use for that money than to undo such an old injustice. It will take a few more weeks, but I assure you, we will have that pardon.”

Pontmercy swallowed, his cheeks still flushed a hectic red, and then reached out to press Javert's hand. With a frown, Javert turned and saw that Valjean was approaching, which would put an end to his interrogation of the boy. Better Valjean than his daughter, he told himself, but even so he could not help the heat that rose to his own face when Valjean stopped by his side.

“You are well?” he asked. He still felt awkward at the anxiousness that gripped him when it came to Valjean's well-being. And yet, Javert had been forced to watch him be whipped, had pressed his own fingers to the gun wound in his side. Whenever Javert tried to go to sleep, he relived these moments—as well as the wonder of those encounters in the darkness which made his heart beat faster whenever he was close to Valjean.

“Very well.” Valjean gave him a tentative smile.

Pontmercy took his leave—fled, Javert thought with a tinge of satisfaction at this reaction he yet produced—and Javert became aware once more of how close Valjean was standing. Valjean too held a glass in his hand, some cordial that the grandfather had insisted on and Valjean was too polite to decline. Javert's heart gave another sudden jolt at the thought that perhaps, today was the day they would at last admit to each other what had happened. Did Valjean miss him as Javert did? Did he feel as self-conscious as Javert to look upon him in the presence of his daughter? Did he too wonder whether it was permissible to slide his hand into Javert's beneath the table?

“Very well,” Valjean repeated softly, and then looked out of the window into the garden. “I have been walking outside these past few days. Cosette worries, of course, and I think her worry for me is a better medicine than the doctor's pills. To hear her say 'father' and chide me for walking for so long outside...!” 

A sudden joy made his eyes shine, and Javert loathed himself for the insecurity that made his own heart heavy. Valjean loved his daughter. Valjean was loved in turn. That was right; that was as it should be. How could he begrudge this?

Javert forced a smile onto his own lips, grasping desperately for some innocent topic to converse about. _Do you think of the darkness sometimes?_ his fearful heart asked. _Do you remember when I kissed you?_

Aloud, he said, “Henry is still looking into the case of Thénardier, but from all accounts, he has indeed taken a ship. You will have nothing to fear from that man anymore. And there are not many left who know—”

He ground his teeth when Valjean paled and quickly swallowed his cordial. What had taken him to speak of such things here?

“Forgive me,” Javert murmured. “I did not intend to hurt you. I just want you to know that you are safe.”

Valjean hesitated for a long moment, but then his hand lightly came to rest on Javert's arm. “You have been a good friend to me, Javert,” he said. His voice shook a little. Javert had to swallow, and then, daring, covered Valjean's hand with his own for a moment.

“I have tried,” he said humbly. Elation spread through him—a wave of warmth, as though something had lifted his heart. To have Valjean's approval, was that not more than he had ever dared to dream of? Only an ingrate would ask for more. Still, here in front of the fire, with Valjean's hand warm beneath his own, he could not help but remember the softness of Valjean's hair against his cheek. He remembered how Valjean had held his face, gentle but strong, and had drawn the razor carefully over his bared throat. He imagined doing the same for Valjean one morning. To fall asleep against him once more, to experience the comfort of his warm body, the urgency of his gasps...

Javert felt his face heat. How impossible to think of such things here, in this company! And yet his eyes lingered on Valjean's lips that gleamed from the cordial, and he imagined kissing him again, or pressing his thumb against the drop of liqueur on his bottom lip to wipe it away.

He exhaled shakily. When he lifted his eyes to Valjean's, he saw that he was watched in return. Valjean's eyes had darkened, and Javert wondered whether Valjean's memories had wandered down the same path as his own. Would Valjean object, were he to reach out and brush back a lock of hair?

Valjean swallowed, and Javert watched the silken cravat shift. Were they alone, perhaps he would not even have needed to speak. Perhaps he could have simply rested his fingers against the knot, and then, if there was no protest, slowly, gently drawn it open, until—

“Monsieur, will you spend the night?” Cosette asked. Javert flinched, terror gripping him for a moment at the thought that all his sins must certainly be displayed on his face, his desire plain for anyone to see.

“It is very windy, and it will start to rain any moment. I will have Nicolette ready a guest room if you—”

“No need, madame,” Javert said, and he could not look at Valjean as he spoke. Something had tightened around his throat; his voice sounded rough, and he prayed that she would not see the heat on his face, or at least would not wonder what had brought it about.

“The fire,” he began awkwardly, floundered when he at last dared to look up and saw that Valjean had taken a step back, that Cosette had wrapped her arm around him and was looking at him in adoration. And that was right, was it not? That was what they had both wanted. For Valjean to be returned to his family.

No matter what demons hounded Javert, they had no place here—not this night, not in Valjean’s bed.

“The fire, it is quite warm, madame.” He dabbed at his brow. “And your father must be exhausted. I will return home. This is hardly a storm.”

Cosette protested and tried to press a carriage on him. Valjean remained silent, and Javert felt relief along with that old, helpless yearning. How much worse, now that Javert knew how it felt to sleep by his side, he thought as he went outside to wait for the fiacre they had at last agreed on.

But also, how much sweeter to know that Valjean was loved and cherished as he should be, and would no more hide in cellar rooms or weep in gardens.

“Good night, Javert.” Valjean clasped his hand. Javert remembered when a magistrate had tried to shake his hand so many years ago. How strange that they had come to this. Did these desires truly matter?

 _Be grateful for what you have,_ he told himself. Valjean's hand lingered just a moment longer than would have been necessary. Or had he imagined that? Searchingly, Javert raised his eyes to Valjean's face. He could not read his eyes.

It was dark outside, although the streetlamps had been lit. Valjean's hand was warm and firm around his own. Valjean's chest expanded, and Javert thought that Valjean might speak now, would say something, just the smallest reassurance that Javert had not imagined this, that Valjean had not forgotten what had been between them—a promise that they would speak again...

The air escaped Valjean in a deep sigh as the clatter of hooves signaled the arrival of the fiacre, and with regret Javert felt his hand slip from Valjean's grasp.

“Good night,” he said and tried to give Valjean a smile, the name Fauchelevent still too strange on his tongue to use in this moment when he could think of nothing but the intimacy of resting against Valjean's chest. “Rest. I will see you soon.”

He watched from the window of the fiacre as the sight of Valjean receded quickly—a flash of white hair beneath a streetlamp, beside him the liveried, broad shoulders of Basque, and then they turned a corner, and Javert was alone with his thoughts.

 _Be grateful_ , he told himself again. And he was grateful. But even so, these thoughts that had taken hold of him were hard to let go of.


	22. The Truth Beneath the Yearning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Javert receives a midnight visitor in his nightshirt.

The house was quiet when Javert returned to his rooms. He undressed quickly. He was tired, even though he still felt strangely unsettled. It was difficult to lay himself to rest in his cold bed when such a short time ago, he had touched Valjean's hand and thought of pressing his mouth to his.

Perhaps he should have accepted Cosette's offer. The wind was loud outside. The night would be stormy. His rooms were beneath the roof, which made them hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but also meant that he paid less rent. The steady drum of such rainy nights was often a welcome reminder to be grateful for the bed and blanket he had earned with his own hard work. This night, it did not help him to find sleep.

An hour or two might have passed. Javert had never had trouble falling asleep before, but now, with the wind howling above him, he tried to burrow deeper into his blankets, his hip aching again as though he were still resting on the cold stone in the cave. He turned to his other side. He tried to breathe deeply. He tried not to think of Jean Valjean, but of what he could say to Gisquet, should Gisquet ever question him about what had come to pass.

With guilt, Javert remembered the stash of unsent letters in the drawer of his desk. He should send them. He should, even if it would give Gisquet the final reason to dismiss him from his post. But what if it provoked Gisquet to look more deeply into the events of the past week? What if Gisquet would inquire about Valjean instead? The name Fauchelevent would not hold up for long. Unless...

No, Valjean was careful. His papers would hold. He had even been part of the National Guard; Gisquet had no reason to suspect anything untoward. Thénardier had been paid off by Pontmercy and had crossed the ocean. Javert was the only one left who knew the truth—except Claquesous.

Javert grimaced. At last he sat up, still wide awake, and lit a candle. From the drawer of his nightstand he took the small bottle of laudanum the doctor had left him, and which Pontmercy had paid for. The memory made him wince; after a moment, he put it back without opening it. No. The pain was not so bad. The pain had been worse, but a few lost hours of sleep would not matter. He had nothing to do but visit Valjean tomorrow.

Instead, he reached for the pot of salve the doctor had left him as well, then awkwardly pulled up his shirt. He shivered as the cold air made goosebumps appear on his skin. He should have made a fire before he went to bed—but again, what did it matter? He did not think he would find sleep either way.

Grimly, he massaged some of the salve into his aching hip until the scent of camphor and chamomile filled the room. It was not so bad now. The pain eased after a while. A fire would probably help even more, but he was loath to stand up. Perhaps he would waste his candle and read in its light until—

There was a knock on his door, and he sat up straight, struck by sudden terror.

That had never happened before. It was the middle of the night—certainly it was past midnight now.

Once more, he saw that terrible image of the open door to Valjean's apartment, the paper on the floor, the empty drawers. The spot of blood.

Slowly, he got up. It would not be Claquesous, he told himself. The man would not give him warning like that. Were it Claquesous, Javert would have woken to a gun against his chest, or a knife at his throat.

But even so, his heart was racing, and he felt it like a physical blow when the knock came again.

The floor boards were cold as ice even through his stockings. He moved closer to the door, his eyes drawn to a chair that stood in a corner. The straw backrest was falling apart, but the wood was sturdy. Certainly it would suffice to—

“Javert,” a voice said, muffled through the door. Javert's heart gave a jump of terror and relief both at once.

“Valjean!” he said as he hastily opened the door, staring at him for any sign of trouble. “Valjean, what is wrong? It is near midnight!”

“May I come in?”

Valjean tried to give him a small smile. Javert fought the need to reach out and press his finger to that twitching lip. Then he saw that Valjean's coat and hat were dripping water, and that what little he could see of Valjean's hair was tousled, his cheeks red from the wind.

“Come in, quick! You're all wet, Valjean! What happened?” he asked, already in the process of rekindling the fire.

His fingers trembled a little, both from the shock and from having Valjean appear so suddenly here before him. When the wood finally caught fire, he placed more logs on it before he turned.

Valjean sat on his rickety chair, looking apologetic as the coat that hung by the door kept dripping water.

Javert put down his candle on the table. Then he realized that he was still clad in nothing but his nightshirt, and his throat worked for a moment as he tried to speak words that would not come out.

“Nothing is wrong, Javert, please! I just—wanted to see you.”

Once more, Valjean tried to smile, but Javert saw that his hand was shaking slightly where it rested on the table.

“To see me,” Javert repeated dumbly, and then looked down at where his stockings slipped down his shins.

“I should dress,” he said abruptly, heat rushing to his face. “I should—forgive me, I had—”

“You had gone to bed.” Valjean was still sitting at the small table. He looked calm, although his cheeks were also heated, and he did not meet Javert's eyes. “I should ask for your forgiveness. I should not have come; I know that. Forgive me, Javert, this is not appropriate, and yet...”

Javert swallowed. Again he felt the heart in his chest give a little jolt. He should ask Valjean why he had come. He should dress.

Instead, he found himself stepping forward, taking a clean, though obviously worn towel from a chest, and then gently, slowly, using it to wipe the raindrops from Valjean's face.

His hands were shaking a little. Why _had_ Valjean come? He found he could not speak.

Valjean was quiet. He allowed Javert to dry him as best he could, and then he took a deep breath and rested his hand over Javert's to halt him.

“I came because...” Valjean's eyes were questioning. There was fear in them. He seemed overwhelmed, shaken by something, and even now Javert did not allow himself to think of what it might mean. 

“You followed me before,” Valjean said softly. “You said so: to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. To the garden. Even into Claquesous' caves. You came to me. And now we are safe and free, and you visit me. You sit by my bed or walk with me through the garden; you even come to the dinner Cosette invited you to.”

Another deep breath. Valjean's fingers were cold against his hand. Javert could not breathe as he watched Valjean hesitate, then go on with a fearful desperation he had not seen since their escape.

“And you are a good friend to me, Javert. You are; it is true! But then I remember the caves and the things of which we talked. It seems so easy: now that we are free, everything should be happiness. We live. We are safe. But then I see you look at me, and I—I look at you, Javert.”

Again Valjean paused. His chest was heaving, but Javert thought it was not the journey that had exhausted him, but the effort of speaking those words.

“And I remember what you said,” Valjean continued. “Why you left. Why you left my apartment in the night, a year ago. Javert, I—you don't have to do that again. I do not want you to leave again.”

Valjean fell silent, still pale and wet and shaking a little as if from fear.

And perhaps it was indeed fear, Javert thought. Was Valjean afraid that he would use those words as a weapon?

He leaned forward, cupping Valjean's cheek with his hand.

“You came,” Javert said with quiet wonder. “You came to me. I would have left, if that was what you wanted. I half thought I should, because you have all you should have now. There's your daughter, and—” Javert swallowed his words and shook his head. “Everything I said in those caves is still true. If you want me to stay, I will stay. I do not know what I would do without you.”

Valjean raised his hand to his eyes. His shoulders trembled as though he had finally put down a great burden—and perhaps he had, Javert thought, having carried that same burden for so long. 

Javert took a deep breath, then allowed his hand to slide down until his fingers rested lightly against the wet silk of Valjean’s cravat. “You are wet. You will get sick,” he murmured. “You will stay for the night?”

He could feel Valjean swallow convulsively. Then Valjean nodded, and Javert exhaled as he hooked his finger into the fabric and slowly drew open the cravat. He was intimately aware of the closeness of Valjean, the heat of his skin which he had bared, the way his chest rose and fell with every breath. Another drop of water dripped from a strand of hair and ran down Valjean’s cheek. As if in a dream, Javert found himself reaching out to follow the path with a fingertip.

“Come to bed,” he heard himself saying. He could barely believe the words he spoke, or the flush that had risen to Valjean’s face—and yet, ever since he had found Valjean at his doorstep, there had been a tension in the air. Valjean had come. That was what mattered. And what would follow seemed inevitable: Valjean had taken that first, fearful step forward, and at last they would walk this path together.

Javert’s throat was tight as he remembered the comfort of Valjean’s body against his own. He would know that happiness again. And this time, it would happen because they had both dared to reach out for it. Because they both wanted it, even here, away from all danger.

Valjean did not speak, but his hands rose to his waistcoat. They trembled a little; his knuckles were still reddened from the cold wind. Javert found he had to turn away, for the sight was enough to stir his body. Instead, he brought Valjean another towel, and then, with hands that were shaking as well, spread another blanket over the bed so that Valjean would not be cold.

They did not look at each other until they finally slipped beneath the blankets. Valjean was still flushed, but gradually relaxed against him. Javert had never given it much thought, but he realized now how narrow his cot was, and compared the worn blanket that had been mended in places with the soft, down-filled comforters Valjean had rested beneath in the room Cosette had prepared for him. There was a little shame at the thought. Valjean deserved warmth and comfort, and Javert could only give this. But then, this was already so much more than what they had had in the cave. 

The rain was still falling heavily, steady like a distant drum beat against the roof. The room was warm by now, and Javert was certain the fire would burn through the night: he had used much of his supply of wood to keep it burning for hours yet. Valjean's hair had dried, and Javert hesitantly pressed his lips to it in awe, breathing in the scent of rain and smoke, and beneath, that warm familiarity of Valjean's skin. It was a comfort. The scent warmed him, made him sigh, and though it also reminded him of touching Valjean's skin during their captivity, bruised and aching, the memories went much deeper: Valjean leaning over him to feel his temperature. Valjean bringing him tea. Valjean holding him in his arms in the carriage, half-drowned and still sodden with river water.

And now Valjean rested in his arms, wearing nothing but his shirt, his limbs warm against Javert's and pleasantly hard with muscle. Javert could not stop kissing Valjean's hair. Perhaps it was foolish, but he kept remembering that moment when a lock of Valjean's hair had brushed his cheek for the first time, waking the realization within him that he desired this man, that he loved him, that he longed to be intimate with him. 

That was the truth beneath all his yearning, he thought when he felt Valjean exhale, his breath hot against his throat. This was different to the caves. There was no danger, no constant fear. They need not clutch at each other for comfort. But comfort it was to hold Valjean, to hear him breathe and stroke his hair, to learn for the first time what it meant to share this small space that had been home only to him and his dreams for so very long.

“Javert, I am afraid,” Valjean murmured at last.

Everything was dark outside. The rain and the storm had finally moved off. No one was awake in the house, and the fire burned low. Javert felt Valjean's heart beat against his own. Was this what he had dreamed of during those first, confused days, which now felt like such a long time ago? He could not say. He did not think so. He had had no words for it then. He had not even known that such a sensation existed. The simpleness of it all took his breath away: just Valjean's quiet breathing and the comforting heaviness of his body.

“I thought there could be no harm in it,” Valjean continued softly. “There, in the caves, it seemed impossible to me that someone could think kindly of me, and least of all enough to follow me into that place! And yet there you were, and so I told myself not to question, not to fear. If He had sent you to me, then perhaps I would be forgiven for so gratefully accepting the comfort you offered, even...”

Valjean fell silent, but Javert knew what he meant to say. This thing between them for which there was no name, of which he had no image but what he had seen countless times in the brutality of the bagne or filthy street corners.

“But now, here I am.” Valjean's breath was warm. They were so close that Javert could feel the shifting of his chest as he spoke. “And I am safe, and so are you. And you say that you would be happy to be my friend. And that too is more than I deserve. But had I not come—had I stayed with Cosette—we would have been friends. We could have walked in the park. You could have come and listened to me read to you, whenever you felt like indulging a lonely old fool.”

Javert felt his throat constrict. Tears were suddenly pricking at his eyes. The image Valjean painted was pleasing. He could see it so very well. For days now he had grappled with the knowledge that it would be the right thing to do, to contend himself with that. Out of respect for Valjean. Out of _love_ for Valjean! And yet...

“And yet I looked upon you whenever you came, and I saw you look at me. And when our hands touched—such innocent touches, Javert!—I would shiver and grow fearful, lest my daughter see me like that. Because I think of walking by your side in the garden, Javert, and I think of holding your hand. I imagine reading to you by a fire in the winter, and I think of your hand touching my hair. I watch you leave, and I go to that room Cosette has given me—the large bed, the paintings on the wall, the soft comforter—and all I remember is how your thigh was my pillow, how you guarded my sleep.”

“I've thought of it too,” Javert whispered into the gloom of his chamber. “Of sleeping with you in my arms. Oh, good God! I would never tempt you, never seek to draw you into sin, but Valjean...”

“I know, Javert!” Now at last Valjean drew back so that they could look at each other, and Valjean's fingers came to rest against Javert's lips, so gently and hesitant that it was as light as the brush of his hair had been.

“For so long I have sought to make up for my sins. Even now I fear that judgment when I finally pass from this world—there is one who I hope looks down on me, yet you cannot know what torment I feel to think of him seeing us like this...” Valjean's hand tightened around his shirt, grabbing a fistful over his heart. “Oh, shall I have lived so long only to add another sin to that list? And yet—and yet... You will say it is selfish, and I know it is, but you make me feel—when you touch me, you—” 

Javert closed one hand around the fist that trembled over Valjean's heart. “Even now I think that you are right, that I should deny this thing in me that _hungers_ for you, Valjean, like a starved wolf. I should deny this. I should save you this heartache. I should not make you feel shame by my touch.” He closed his eyes and leaned forward until his forehead touched Valjean's.

“I will not call you selfish, not ever,” Javert then murmured. “It is I who is selfish. I should release you from this torment—but it is worse to be alone now. Before, I thought that I could learn to love you chastely, to be a good friend to you, and be happy with that. But now I think of your hand in mine. I think of kissing you. And nothing, nothing I feel is chaste at all, I...”

He took a deep breath as he shifted, his shaft heavy and aching against his stomach despite the direction their conversation had taken. Then their mouths met in a clumsy kiss, and he heard Valjean gasp as he shifted as well, Valjean's own body hot and hard against his thigh. Javert moaned at the thought that all that was between them was the thin layer of their shirts. He could reach down and close his fingers around that heavy length, stroke it until Valjean trembled with need, and then—

“Javert, Javert,” Valjean gasped against his lips. “Oh, forgive me, God, but I cannot... I want...”

“Yes,” Javert agreed, fevered, his hand daring now to come to rest on Valjean's thigh, to slip upwards beneath the shirt. “Yes. Yes.”

He knew what Valjean felt. This was a need that could not be denied—not simply to gratify the unsavory desires of his body, but a need that went so much deeper: the need to feel Valjean's body against his own, to hold him and kiss him, to share not only quiet moments of friendship with him, but to share this intimacy. To bare both his body and his heart and fill all the lonely, aching places of his soul with Valjean's warmth.

Was it wrong? He did not know anymore. He could only think of what Claquesous had said, of the memories it summoned of straining, groaning bodies in the darkness of Toulon. And still he trembled with how much he wanted Valjean, how much he would give everything to him, even this.

Especially this.

When he sat and the blanket fell away, he shivered, although the fire had heated the room. Valjean looked up at him from dark, dazed eyes, his lips bruised from their kisses. Javert held his gaze despite the shame as he drew up his shirt and then allowed it to drop to the floor.

His heart was racing. Valjean was still watching, his cheeks flushed, his hair tousled—and there, beneath his own shirt was that unmistakable sign that Valjean desired this just as much as he did.

Javert licked his lips. His gaze fell onto the nightstand. The pot of salve was still there, and he thought that it would do just as well as grease. He felt lightheaded even considering these things, but the shame in his stomach was nothing against the need that spread through his body, calling up again and again the fantasies that Claquesous' words had brought forth.

“I've never,” he began, then hesitated, at a loss for words.

What could he say? Anything that came to mind was crude, made him feel ashamed. And yet, was it not also right that it should be he who humbled himself? Claquesous had sought to mock, but what had made Javert flush with shame back then was the fact that it had been the truth. 

“I want you to.” Javert spoke hastily, before he could lose courage. “I want you to have me. Claquesous had the truth of it. I'd gladly roll to my belly for you. I want to... I'd be your bitch. It's true. He was right.”

He shivered as a new wave of heat rolled through him at those words. Shame twisted within him somewhere deep inside, some secret, old ache. But with it came a relief that he had spoken and that it was the truth. Javert thought again of the sordid acts he had seen. Beasts, the men had seemed to him. He had felt nothing but disgust and revulsion. But now he thought of what had once disgusted him, picturing himself in such a position, and had to swallow a moan. Valjean would have all of him: anything he had to give, anything Valjean could possibly ask for.

He moved into position. It was awkward; he could not help but wonder what he looked like to Valjean. But even so, the shame was only a small part of what he felt. Far stronger than the embarrassment was the need for it. Anything, he thought again and felt the truth of it. Anything to have Valjean's touch.

And Valjean would not look down on him for this. Valjean was as new to this as he was, and if Valjean remembered the same beastly rutting, he would also remember what they had felt in the caves. Desperation, yes. Fear. But also the way they had found comfort in each others arms. They had saved each other in more ways than one, down there in the darkness. Javert had put his life and his soul into Valjean's hands. He could trust him with his body as well—even if it meant kneeling on his bed on all fours, legs spread in invitation, his stomach roiling with fear and shame and, above all, the heat of anticipation.

“Javert,” Valjean now spoke at last. His voice was hushed. Javert could not look at him, but he was relieved to hear the hesitancy in Valjean's voice. No disgust. No laughter at the way Javert had bared himself to him. 

“You want me to... Are you certain? What if I hurt you?”

Javert licked his dry lips, almost moaned at the thought that it was going to happen. What if it hurt? He would gladly bear that, just to give Valjean this. 

“You won't,” he said, his voice hoarse, then nodded towards his rickety nightstand. “There, use some of the salve. And then have me. Like this. Please, Valjean, I want to—I want it like this. I want to feel you like this.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Valjean shifted, the bed creaking in protest. Javert listened as the small pot of salve was unscrewed, and there was once more a moment of hesitation before Valjean's breathing changed, quicker now, shallow. Javert squeezed his eyes shut as he imagined Valjean slicking himself with the salve in preparation.

The lid was screwed back on; the pot returned to the nightstand. Again a moment of silence, but Valjean did not question him again, and Javert was glad. He was not certain if he would have been able to speak.

The bed creaked as Valjean moved closer. Javert's breath escaped in a groan when he felt Valjean's hand on his hip—his touch light, still uncertain maybe, but Javert thought that Valjean would remember how good it had felt in the cave. It would happen again: that overwhelming need when they touched, as though his very skin hungered for the warmth of Valjean pressed against him, his sweat and his heat and his scent...

Both of Valjean's hands rested on his hips. One of them was slick with the salve, and Javert's heart thudded in his chest. He had felt him against his body in the cave. Tonight.. tonight he would feel him inside. Tonight it would happen. Did Valjean also remember those groans and shadows moving during the dark nights of Toulon? It would not matter, he thought. Javert had willingly given himself up to this. And what was between them was not that. None of that darkness. None of the animal violence. Perhaps it was wrong to draw Valjean into this, but whatever this was, it was neither the foul acts of Toulon nor the transactions he had observed in dark street corners.

Valjean's breathing was loud in the silence of their room. Javert listened to his own quickening heartbeat. Valjean's hand slipped down his thigh. Valjean's fingers were smooth against his skin, gentle, loving, and Javert bit back an impatient groan as he waited. How could Valjean make him wait like this? Was Valjean not as overwhelmed and near mindless with desire as Javert?

Javert fisted a part of the sheet, panting, terrified and exhilarated as he felt Valjean brush against his thigh at last, remembering the weight and the size of him. Again Valjean waited, and Javert thought that any moment now, he would start to beg for it again. Did Valjean need to hear him plead? He would do it; he had no pride left; he needed him—

Valjean swallowed. “Javert,” he said, his voice thin with shame and apprehension, and then Javert felt it: Valjean was not quite hard, was softening against his thigh, and for a moment Javert could not understand what was happening. Did Valjean not desire him in such a way? Had he been right after all, was the ignominy of the act too much to ask from Valjean who already had such fears for his soul?

Slowly, Javert turned back onto his side, meeting Valjean's eyes. He had expected recriminations, or perhaps a tightening of that beloved face, Valjean coming to the conclusion at last that he could not follow Javert into sin after all.

Instead, Valjean looked pale and weary. He had indeed softened; even now, as Javert looked at him in sudden fear, not understanding what was happening, Valjean softened further, and then flushed and tugged his shirt down to cover himself.

“I cannot,” Valjean began, his voice shaking. “Forgive me. You ask this from me, and I would give you what you want, but, I cannot—you are not that to me. Do you understand, Javert?” 

Valjean moved away from him, sitting down at the edge of the bed, and swallowed painfully. “I came here to tell you that I want you. That I want what you promised, what I promised you. To kiss in the garden one day. To have your company. But, Javert, I will not—I will not just make use of you, like any other would. I don't want you to be...”

His voice trailed off, and he raised a trembling hand to his brow. With horror, Javert realized all of a sudden that he had been wrong. He had remembered with shame and disgust what he had seen so long ago. He had known he could not subject Valjean to such a thing. But in turn...

“You talk of what Claquesous said. You say that you want it. But Javert, I...” Valjean was silent for a long moment. At last he turned again to look at Javert. “I should be grateful for what you offer me. But you don't have to offer these things. I could not bear it to shame you. To make you my—”

His voice broke before he could finish the sentence, and Javert reached out to clasp his hands.

“Forgive me,” Javert now said, helpless. He had made this happen. He had wanted to make Valjean feel good—instead he had forgotten that Valjean, too, had seen these scenes. 

“I wanted to let you decide what we—I wanted you to know, always, how much I cherish and respect you.” Javert licked his lips when Valjean would not meet his eyes. “Have I ruined it all now? Valjean, I...”

For a moment, he thought of how he must have looked. Again shame was hot in him—not for how he had offered himself, but for how it must have looked to Valjean. Valjean, who had lived in that same place of darkness. Who had heard the same grunts in the night. 

Javert ground his teeth at his own willful forgetfulness, then rubbed his still aching hip. Yes, Valjean remembered the same things. And rather than offer Valjean reassurance that nothing they shared could be tainted by that place, he had thought that Valjean would not mind following those half-forgotten memories, as long as Javert made certain that he was the one who offered himself up.

“I am a fool. Selfish, and a fool,” Javert said. How often had he admitted a similar thing to Valjean? Perhaps he would never cease to find new reasons.

“The thought is distasteful to you; I can see that. Well, it was not distasteful to me, and I will tell you, Valjean, it was not because I thought that you would happily take advantage of any surrender I offered. Never think that. You let me go in that alleyway. You already had me in your power; you did not want it. Let that always be straight between us.”

The words came out in a hurried rush; Valjean blinked at him. Javert was flushing at his own words, but he feared that if he stopped, Valjean might decide to leave, and he still could not believe that Valjean had truly come.

“I'm charging ahead into things without thinking. Or no: I think too much, so much that I am confusing myself. Valjean, what I wanted more than anything was your company. To have you here with me. Can I—will you still give that?”

“What do you mean?” Valjean asked carefully. Daring once more, Javert reached out to rest his hand on Valjean's knee, now covered by the shirt again.

“Sleep here. Stay here with me. Let us be together in that way, so that I can find comfort in resting by your side. I want nothing more.” For now, he nearly added, and yet he did not want Valjean to think that it was an invitation based on conditions.

How had this all become so terribly convoluted when it had been so easy in those caves? They had slept in each other's arms for so long. How could it lead to such fears and insecurity, now that it was his own bed, his own chamber?

“You no longer want...” Valjean fell silent again.

Almost, Javert feared that he had truly driven him away now, that Valjean would leave—but then Valjean reached out and slowly allowed his fingers to sink into Javert's hair, his thumb brushing along his whiskers.

“Everything I said is still true,” Valjean said softly. “I came because I needed your company. I am not a saint, no matter what you tell yourself, Javert. I want... _this_. Otherwise I would not be here. I have been lonely for so long. I would not throw this away out of fear. But I am also old, and weary, and, by now, rather cold.”

Abashed, Javert turned to his side in invitation once more, holding up the blanket so that there was space for Valjean to come rest against him. Thanks to the fire, the room was no longer freezing cold—but it was winter, and Valjean wore but his shirt and was still weakened from what they had gone through. Again Javert chided himself for his selfishness. Perhaps wanting Valjean in such a way could be made right. But only if they found a way that was different to what they had known before.

“I liked what we had in the cave,” Valjean murmured against his skin when he came into his arms at last, fitting there easily, no matter that Javert's bed was narrow.

“Forgive me. I did not want to hurt you. I want... this,” Valjean said again, and Javert dared to wrap his arms around him and press his own mouth to warm skin.

It was good, Javert thought. It was what he had wanted too: the sound of Valjean's breathing. The softness of his hair against his cheek. The knowledge that tomorrow, they would wake like this and perhaps share a kiss, and then share breakfast.

“I do as well,” Javert whispered against Valjean's shoulder. “I should ask for your forgiveness. I don't know anything about these things. But I want you here with me.”

Perhaps, in the morning, Valjean would allow him to help him shave. The thought sent a little thrill through Javert. He remembered still how Valjean had done it for him. The intimacy of it. The gentleness of Valjean's touch.

Yes. There were things they could share, and these things were nothing like what they had once observed. The thought of Valjean pressed against him, inside him, still made him shiver—but perhaps they would find a different way for that as well. 

Valjean was breathing softly against his skin. Javert could feel the heat of his body through the thin shirt. Javert himself was still naked and thought again with longing of running his hand up beneath Valjean's shirt to take his shaft into his hand, to massage it slowly, skillfully until Valjean gasped and came to full hardness. Instead, he slid his arm further down his back to hold him in place, securely pressed together.

“I want you here,” he murmured, while Valjean breathed regularly against his shoulder. “I want you here.”


	23. Building on the Foundation of Love and Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scale of Javert's soul is tipped and tears are shed in a garden on the Rue Plumet once more.

Valjean was still in his arms when Javert woke. Valjean was awake, although Javert could not say how he knew. Perhaps, after the time spent in the caves, his body had grown used to the rhythm of Valjean's breathing and the heavy warmth of his limbs relaxed in sleep. 

Valjean's body was pressed against his. Valjean's mouth rested against his collarbone, the air he exhaled warm and damp, and Javert lingered for long moments in that twilight between waking and dream, content simply to know that Valjean desired such closeness.

At last, when Javert opened his eyes, he saw what he had felt. Valjean in his arms. Valjean's hair against his cheek. The early light of the rising sun filled the room, and the fire Javert had started to last them during the night had burned down to embers. He thought that he should rise and start a fire again, to make certain that it would be warm for Valjean when he rose—but Javert could not let go of him, not yet.

This what what he had hoped for, he realized as he watched Valjean sigh and draw back a little, his face still soft with sleep. This. If he could never have more than this, he would be content. No, he would know himself blessed. This was what he had dreamed of when he had followed Valjean through the streets of Paris, yearning for that dim understanding of a happiness he had never known. 

Valjean sighed deeply. Then slowly, a smile appeared on his lips. 

“I have slept very well,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Good morning,” Javert said, and then, because he had never thought that there would be a morning when Valjean would wake in his bed and be happy, he leaned forward to kiss him. There was an ecstasy even in something as simple as this: Valjean fitting perfectly against him, warm and relaxed and at long last kissing Javert because he wanted to, holding him because it pleased him, and not because their closeness was all the comfort they had in the darkness.

Valjean made a delighted sound when he drew back at last. His cheeks were flushed, and Javert thought he had never seen such warmth in his eyes before.

“I am glad that I came,” Valjean said. “I was so afraid; I almost did not dare it. I cannot even tell you what I feared. But I remembered how lonely it was when you left my apartment a year ago. I missed your company. I had gotten used to it. I never had any company but Cosette's, and I thought I could never ask for more. But she loves her husband, and though I'm still a foolish old man who wishes he wouldn't have to share his daughter, I couldn't deny her happiness. And you, Javert... You've shown me that there is more. That I can have more, if I want it. So please don't fear that I do not want this. I want... _all_ of this. Anything you want. I have no experience with these things, and I fear I was quite foolish yesterday, but if you are willing to be patient with me... I am willing to stay. To return as often as you will let me.”

Valjean's eyes were soft, although Javert could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands trembled against his skin. Humbled, Javert again considered how much courage it must have taken Valjean to come here last night. Because it was true: Valjean had everything he had once thought he wanted in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. And yet he had left that behind to come to Javert. To seek him out, to perhaps chance that Javert would run from him again.

No more running, Javert thought and slid one hand into Valjean's hair.

Beneath the covers, Valjean's body was warm against his own, pleasantly hard. Javert shifted a little, his own leg sliding against Valjean's thigh, and he remembered once more the way they had moved against each other in the cave.

Nervously, he licked his lips, then, daring, rested one hand on Valjean's thigh. Valjean shivered at the touch. When Javert questioningly drew his hand a little upward, slipping beneath the shirt, Valjean leaned forward to kiss him again, eyes closed as he allowed Javert's hand to travel further up.

“I want to... Can I,” Javert began, and Valjean gasped, “Yes, yes!” against his lips and shifted.

Then Javert's fingers found the coarse curls that grew around Valjean's shaft. As Javert drew his fingers through them in fascination, Valjean moaned into his mouth, grasping Javert's shoulder. Determined, Javert sat up and pushed away the blanket.

“Let me look at you!” he said. It came out as a demand, near desperate, although he had meant it as a plea. But Valjean's eyes were still on his; Valjean was still flushed, the sound of his breathing heavy in the air, and then Valjean gripped his shirt and slowly pulled it off.

Javert groaned as he saw what had been concealed beneath. Valjean's prick rested against his thigh, half-soft but steadily swelling beneath Javert's gaze, beautifully sized and tempting him with its generous girth. He had never looked at another with such desire before he came to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. He had never even touched himself with anything more than efficient, fast satisfaction of his body's needs—but now he was drawn towards it, now he had to run his hands up Valjean's thighs again, and then let his mouth follow when they spread for him.

He kissed his way upwards while Valjean sank back into the mattress, his back arching when Javert licked a slow path onward until his nose bumped into the soft, warm sack that held Valjean's testes. Javert was near delirious with need. He could not think, could only express his worship and desire through touch, and so he pressed his mouth to the pouch, breathing kisses to the warm flesh while Valjean trembled, his tongue stroking the balls within until Valjean gasped. Then he mouthed at Valjean's prick—it was _hot_ , so hot, and alive, twitching as he exhaled worshipfully, hungrily against it. He moaned, nuzzling blindly into the curls that grew at its base to inhale the scent of Valjean.

“Please,” he said at last when he managed to look up. “For God's sake, Valjean, I do not care what we do, but I need to touch you, I need...”

“Yes,” Valjean said, and Javert was relieved to hear that same desperation in his voice. “Anything you want. Anything, everything!”

“Can we—” He panted, couldn't force out the words and instead pressed himself against Valjean again.

He put his mouth to his collarbone, sucked a kiss against the skin that was already damp with sweat, and then groaned when his own prick slid against Valjean's coarse curls. He thrust against him, clenching his teeth at the sensation. Valjean was moving against him and he had to muffle another groan against Valjean's mouth. This was fine, he thought wildly, this was fine, rutting against each other like animals, but good God, it was Heaven itself, it was—

“We can do it,” Valjean gasped against him, eyes wide and dazed. One hand clenched Javert's hip as they slid together, hard enough to bruise, and Javert groaned again at the realization that Valjean was too overcome by pleasure to remember his own strength.

“If you want it—if you still want _that_ , Javert, anything you want!”

Javert groaned, low and desperate. It was nearly impossible to stop—almost it seemed easier to let this find its natural conclusion and forget those desires that had caused upset yesterday. And yet...

“I want it still,” he admitted, voice rough.

Valjean reached out, hand trembling, to take hold of the pot of salve once more. He flushed as Javert watched greedily, but Valjean didn't stop, smoothing the glistening ointment all over his hard prick, and then—

“Can we...” Valjean hesitated, his hand curving around Javert's arm. “Not like yesterday, please. Whatever you want, but—just, like this, please Javert?”

“Anything,” Javert said again, his prick aching for a touch, his body aching for Valjean. He was close, as close as was possible, their flushed bodies pressed together, and yet he could not help craving _more_.

“Come, come, like this,” he groaned and slid his leg over Valjean's hip. It had to be possible like this, resting against each other on their side. He felt awkward, exposed and wanton, begging for this in such a way—but Valjean was in his arms, Valjean's eyes were focused on him, hesitant and dazed with that same overwhelming need that had taken hold of him.

Valjean shifted. Javert could feel the heat of his flesh against his thigh, thick and well-greased with the salve. Certainly, even if it wouldn't be a pleasant experience, _this_ would be, holding Valjean in his arms while they were so close that he breathed in the air Valjean exhaled. Then Valjean's prick rubbed against his hole and Javert gritted his teeth, waiting with growing impatience as Valjean reached down to steady his prick with a shaking hand, and then—

Javert cried out as it slid into him, or maybe Valjean did. He was overwhelmed; he could not say which of them was making these sounds of pleasure so keen it was nearly agony, but his body yielded easily to the slickness of the grease. Valjean's prick _filled_ him, hot and alive inside him in a way he had never known before.

Every time they shifted, the pressure within him increased, so that he arched his back and grasped at Valjean's shoulders to keep him as close as possible. It was unbearable. It was unlike anything he had ever known. And then Valjean's hands clutched at him as well, Valjean's mouth hot and desperate against his shoulder, gasping little sounds of pleasure that were nearly sobs, as though Valjean too could not contain the terrifying ecstasy of what they had done.

No longer could Javert remember what he had once observed in Toulon. No longer could he hear the echo of Claquesous' words. All that was left was the pleasure building to impossible heights, a pressure within him that seemed impossible to contain, and it was all good, it was all heat, it was all—

Valjean shuddered and gasped his name. His hips rolled against Javert's, again and again, heat spreading inside him as Valjean spilled himself. Javert buried his hand in Valjean's hair, pulled him up for another kiss, open-mouthed and messy as they gasped their pleasure against each other, and then he wrapped one hand around his prick, which had been aching for attention. One hard tug was all it took. He clung to Valjean, his release spurting over his fingers in a rush of heat that made him tremble and groan as more and more came with every stroke, until Valjean's stomach was sticky with it.

They had collapsed against each other. Javert's breath was still heavy, and he could feel Valjean's frantic heartbeat against his chest. Their cheeks were pressed together, their bodies entwined, and though his skin felt tacky with sweat and their spilled issue, Javert found it was impossible to move. Contentment had settled inside him. It was seeping into every fingertip, every toe, every weary bone, until he thought that if he could only remain like this, forever, he would have no other wish in the world.

Eventually, their mouths found each other again. Kissing was awkward and messy in this position, but Javert did not mind; all he wanted was the warmth of Valjean against him, the wetness of his mouth and the little gasps he still made once one of them shifted.

At least, with a weary groan, they settled into a more comfortable position. Valjean's softened prick slipped out of Javert, and Javert stretched his tired body, the ache in his hip gone at last, or overshadowed by the pleasure of Valjean, warm and relaxed in his arms.

Valjean was smiling at him. Valjean was smiling—that sweet smile that Javert so coveted. His lips had drawn up just the barest hint, but his eyes were filled with the warmth of sunlight, and Javert was not only allowed to bask in it, but also gloat that it was he who had brought it about.

He raised his hand to Valjean's face, traced the lines of his swollen lips with his fingers.

“I should not have left that first time I realized that I had come to desire you,” Javert said at last. “I could not think past what I assumed you to be. And what I assumed myself to be. Forever captive to our old roles, in one way or another...”

“If you're not leaving, then I will not leave either. Perhaps we can both be strong for each other...” Valjean turned his head and nuzzled into Javert's hand as Javert sighed at the heat of his lips.

“Do you remember that bargain we made? I sought to rid myself of my life, the way one would drown a dog.”

“It was never truly a bargain,” Valjean said.

Javert hushed him with his fingers. “Whether you meant it or not, what you said then was the truth. My soul belongs to you. This heart that beats in my chest now desires goodness. When I thought that we were about to die, I was happy to know that my soul would be held in your hand. And now you shall tell me that what bargain we made at the river is over; that now that I have this heart, my soul is my own, as it was all along—but that is where you are wrong, Jean Valjean. It is yours. It is yours.”

Valjean pressed closer, silent but for the sound of his breath that brushed hot against Javert's skin. “I would never ask for such a gift from you,” he began, then fell silent.

A moment passed; Javert could feel the thud of Valjean's heartbeat, the rhythm familiar and comforting. It sent a thrill through him: the warmth of his breath, the heaviness of his limbs against his own, the softness of the hair on his chest that brushed against Javert's own nipples. All these were things that they had both drawn comfort from in the dark nights of the caves. And now, here they were, in Javert's small rooms, resting beneath the old blanket that had served him for nearly a decade, embracing each other on the mattress that for all its life had only ever known Javert's weight and form, until it had become molded to him and his habits.

Everything was different. Everything was familiar.

Javert huffed hoarse laughter against Valjean's lips. Was the same not true for Valjean? He had know him for so many years—and yet Javert’s heart had been transformed by that one moment when Valjean's hair had brushed his cheek.

Javert kissed him gently, determined to master the art of causing Valjean to sigh with pleasure. This thing between them was still so strange—still, in time, he thought, they could both learn how to share their souls, and how to allow tenderness to fill the places that were still soft and new.

Valjean's fingers stroked his whiskers. Valjean's thigh rested comfortably between his legs. They were pressed so tightly together that his narrow bed seemed like all he could ever want.

“I could not ask—but I think I can accept it as a gift, Javert. It humbles me. It frightens me!” Valjean laughed once, almost as though speaking the words shocked him anew, then muffled the sound with another kiss.

Javert slid his hand around Valjean's head to hold him in place. “But you were brave enough to come,” Javert murmured when they broke the kiss at last.

Valjean nodded. His arm pulled Javert even tighter, and Valjean exhaled again, warmth suffusing his face—bliss, Javert thought suddenly. That was that expression was. And he had been the one to bring it about. 

“You gave me the courage,” Valjean said quietly. “You came after me. You followed me into the water. You followed me, even when you thought you were swimming into your death. If you can have that faith in me, then I can have faith in this gift you have given me.”

Valjean was pressed so tightly against him that it seemed to Javert that in this moment, they had truly become one—hearts beating together in their chests, legs entangled so that he could not even say anymore where his body ended and where Valjean's began, Valjean's breath filling his lungs as their mouths melded.

When he drew back at last, Valjean's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were dark with heat and full of life. A strand of his hair brushed Javert's cheek.

Slowly, reverently, Javert reached out and took hold of it. As light as a feather on his fingers, and yet, it had struck him to the core, had cut open his chest and let in the light that had once and for all allowed the withered heart within him to take root and grow ever upward towards the light of Valjean.

He pressed his lips to it in adoration. If there was still a scale somewhere, he thought that God Himself must have tipped it with His own hand, for Javert's heart was light, and his soul soared with Valjean's, blissful and free.

***

Javert was seated at Valjean's desk in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, as was his wont these days. Outside, the light was fading; soon he would have to light a candle, or else give up on his letters for the day.

To his left piled up the stash of finished letters. He had not yet sent them to the Prefect of Police. For several weeks, Javert had sat on them, contemplating every morning whether he should send a gamin to deliver the stash and thus bring about instant dismissal. He did not think that Gisquet would keep him on, not if he was faced with the entirety of Javert's discontent.

He would send them eventually. Although Pontmercy assured him that the pardon was as good as acquired, Javert did not dare to attract Gisquet's attention until they held the document in their hands. Furthermore, there was still the matter of Claquesous, who had vanished into the shadows once more. So far, it had been impossible to find his whereabouts. Privately, Javert wondered whether Gisquet knew—or perhaps, the ties between them had been severed once and for all by the events. 

With a sound of dismay he twirled his fingers into his whiskers, idly tugging on the hair as he stared down at the sentences he had penned earlier. He could not even recall anymore when the idea had sprung up. As ideas came, this seemed a particularly useless one—and yet Valjean had encouraged him to keep up this madness. To pen his lists of the failures he had observed every day, and send them not to Gisquet, but to the Moniteur, the Journal des Débats, the Constitutionnel or even the Tribune Catholique—what change would that make? 

Valjean seemed to think there was reason in it. Or perhaps, Valjean simply thought that it kept Javert occupied. 

Well, he was not wrong there. Javert narrowed his eyes and added another item to the list, then folded up the letter briskly. 

There. To the Moniteur again. Tomorrow, he would send them, and when they arrived, no one would read them—or, if they did, they would laugh at what they would call the madness of a stranger. Even if they read it, it would change nothing. No one would print such a thing. Javert had received an answer only twice, and he thought that it had been more because whoever had read the letter had indeed wondered whether there was some madman behind the words.

But Javert was not mad. Javert still struggled with this thing in himself which he had once thought to drown. And yet, here he sat, filled with that relentless knowledge of the multitude of misdoings which no one seemed inclined to change. They churned within him, day and night. Should he now turn his back on the pillars of the law and the society built upon them, just because they were not as irreproachable as he had once thought?

He could not do it, even now. 

There was a knock—yes, trust Jean Valjean to knock in his own home, to enter his own study, Javert thought with affectionate impatience. Then Valjean came in. In his hand, he held a cup of tea, and beneath his arm there was a paper.

Javert eyed it suspiciously. It was rather late, and he had just determined to give up this useless obsession for the day. Had Valjean found yet another newspaper to try and keep him occupied with letters which would never be read?

Javert bit back the irritation as soon as he felt it well up. His discontent was not Valjean's fault. And yet, there was no one to take it out on. There was not even the hunt to devote himself to. As he kept falling in Gisquet's regard, likewise the work the commissaire had him do kept decreasing in challenge, until it seemed that the skills he had honed over long years had lost all worth.

Perhaps tomorrow, Henry would at least let him hunt for pick-pockets at the market, Javert thought bitterly. Then he took a deep breath and accepted the cup of tea from Valjean's hands. Some of his frustration must have still shown on his face, for Valjean's hand lingered on his own and he received a searching look.

Oh, to still be the recipient of pity after all this time... Javert swallowed back the frustration. If Gisquet sought to make him wait until he would take his leave of his own volition, Javert would not have Valjean be the recipient of the anger that was meant for Gisquet.

Valjean's fingertips stroked the back of his hand. The touch was very light, but it lingered. If he tugged Valjean closer now to kiss him, he could find distraction in another way. He knew that Valjean would indulge him.

“Here is the Journal de Rouen. They printed one of your letters today,” Valjean said. 

Just like that, the frustration suddenly fell away from Javert. He grabbed the paper and opened it to peruse the contents, scanning the pages with impatience until Valjean at last guided him to the last page.

“Ha!” Javert said after a moment. “Ha. That is something. That is something indeed.”

Valjean's hand was at his shoulder now. Valjean leaned forward to read the paper over his shoulder, and Javert took a deep breath. Valjean's hair was soft against his cheek. He could turn his head now and kiss him. 

Valjean would allow himself to be kissed. Valjean would allow himself to be drawn into an embrace, might raise his hand to stroke Javert's whiskers, as that seemed to be something he enjoyed, and they could end the day pleasantly. Sitting together before the fire, bodies pressed together more than was proper, Valjean's head on his shoulder once it got later. Or Valjean might read to him until Javert fell asleep from boredom, for he had not yet been fully convinced of the merit of the books Valjean could disappear into for hours at a time.

“Will you walk with me?” Javert said on a whim. “We might yet catch the sunset at the Seine. Or we can walk to Saint-Sulpice; it is not too late yet to make it to evening mass.”

“I will walk with you,” Valjean said. His hair was still soft against Javert's cheek. “We need not hurry to church. I will go to mass tomorrow; there is a family I have promised to visit. And tonight...”

Valjean hesitated a moment. At last, he said, “Shall I walk you home then? Or would you—would you like to walk with me to the Rue Plumet?”

Javert frowned at the question. That was a longer walk than he had thought to suggest. They would not arrive before sunset, and they would have to walk back in darkness. Moreover, if Valjean desired to walk in his garden, it would be too dark to look at what flowers or bushes Valjean wanted him to see.

“If you want me to, I will come.” Javert stood, and was not surprised to find apprehension on Valjean's face.

Still, Valjean did not speak, although the request was so out of the ordinary that Javert wondered what was afoot.

“Let me get my coat then,” Javert said, catching hold of Valjean's arm before he could turn away to draw him into a kiss.

Javert could not do that in the street. And if he did not return here with Valjean tonight, he would not have a chance to kiss him goodnight, or to wake warm and content with Valjean's limbs entwined with his own.

He knew that Valjean desired his company, and Valjean knew that Javert desired his. But beyond that... some things it was impossible to ask for. Could Javert give up his chamber and move into Valjean's apartment? What might his daughter say, should she visit?

Perhaps she would see nothing untoward in having two old friends share rooms. And yet, when at the same time Valjean refused to come live with her...

Valjean kissed him gently. In a month's time, they had learned how to do this properly; how to teach their mouths to be gentle and soft, or hungry when the time called for it. By now, the pressure of Valjean's lips was a familiar sensation, and Javert waited until Valjean's hand came up to his cheek, fingers twining into his whiskers while Valjean breathed a soft sound of delight into his mouth. How strange, Javert thought once more, that their bodies should have learned such indulgence at their age. And yet, how good to indulge each other in these ways, and to press layer upon layer of love and affection over old scars!

They nearly missed the sunset. The sky was already ablaze in pink and orange when they stood upon the Pont Notre-Dame, and there they lingered for long minutes, watching the sun set the clouds aflame. Javert took Valjean's arm into his own, and he did not even think of the roaring waters of the Seine while the sky darkened, the streetlamps being lightened before them along the Quai de la Cité. 

Before them, Notre-Dame stood tall and dark against the deepening blue of the sky. The quay was yet busy with merchants and others strolling along the river just as they did, but once they made it to the Place St. André and from there took a turn into the smaller streets south towards Saint-Sulpice, the streets grew more quiet. 

Every now and then, Javert turned his head to look at Valjean. A few times, he caught Valjean looking at him as well, and then they would smile at each other, Valjean's eyes warm with the affection that Javert knew was for him alone. His hands still remembered cupping Valjean's face, and his mouth remembered the heat of Valjean's tongue sliding against his own, shockingly hot. He was still not quite certain what had caused Valjean to suggest this walk, but he was glad now, for once they arrived in the garden, he would be able to press his mouth to Valjean's without the fear that they might be observed.

“We should have brought a light,” he said at last when they reached the gate in the Rue Plumet.

Valjean had not taken the secret entrance from the Rue de Babylône, which surprised him, for Valjean was overly cautious even now. For one moment, he wondered if Pontmercy had told him about the pardon. Was Valjean cross with him because of their secrecy?

No, he decided when Valjean unlocked the gate and they stepped into the garden. No, he would know if Valjean were upset with him. Perhaps Valjean simply felt safe, at long last, now that Pontmercy knew the truth, and now that Claquesous himself had fled. Or perhaps it was as simple as that it was late, and dark, and they had no light to make it through the long, winding corridor.

Once the gate was closed behind them, Valjean took his hand. Javert allowed himself to be led deeper into the wilderness that was still strangely familiar from when he had spied on Valjean. It was quiet out here; they were far from the streets where even now omnibuses rolled and merchants made their way home. The Rue Plumet was silent. Here, in the garden behind the encircling wall, hidden by bushes and trees that stretched against the darkening sky, not a sound could be heard but that of the creaking of branches and rustling of leaves. Valjean did not stop until he had led Javert around the house, to the overgrown garden between the pavilion and Valjean's shack.

Valjean's hand was warm and reassuring in Javert's grasp, but even so Javert took a deep breath when he looked at the carpet of gillyflowers. Here he had observed Valjean kneel. Here he had seen him weep. What grief and pain might Javert have spared him, had he stepped forward then?

Who could say how it might have gone. He would gladly have given up Valjean's love, if that had spared him captivity. But would Valjean want to give up what they had found?

Javert swallowed. Perhaps he was selfish still. Perhaps he would always be. And yet, all he could do was accept what he had been given, and try to prove himself worthy.

He draw their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to Valjean's fingers. “I owe you a kiss in this place, I believe,” he said to lighten the mood.

Valjean watched him pensively, but then his eyes crinkled and his eyes shone with warmth as he laughed silently.

“No, Javert. I'm the one who promised you that kiss. I have not forgotten it. That kiss, and many more.”

“Well, kiss me then,” Javert said, his heart full as he remembered that desperate promise.

Everything was silent. The wind teased at his hair. Then Valjean moved forward, and they were both silent for a while until Javert sighed at the heat of Valjean's mouth and the tenderness of Valjean's fingers stroking his whiskers. 

“There,” Javert said when it was done.

Valjean's eyes were still gleaming, and he studied Javert as though he was uncertain. But what was there to be uncertain about? Had Javert not done his best to show Valjean that he would desire to kiss and hold him, no matter where or when?

Valjean licked his lips. Then, he reached into his pocket and drew out a letter. Javert eyed it warily.

“Do not look worried,” Valjean murmured as he held it out, hesitant—but also hopeful? “It is not a bad thing. At least I hope you will not think of it as bad.”

What letter could there be? Had the pardon been denied—no, impossible, Javert told himself, Pontmercy had it as good as secured, as soon as some third cousin had time to speak to his grand-uncle, a justice at the Court of Cassation. Furthermore, Valjean did not look fearful. Nor did he look sad. Good news then—but what good news could there possibly be, and in a letter sent to Valjean?

Javert huffed impatiently as he accepted it and recognized the handwriting as that of Valjean's daughter. Well then. That _was_ reassuring. He had not yet told her about his own part in her mother's death, which was doubtlessly why she still seemed unreasonably fond of him. Javert, in turn, told himself he did not begrudge her the love that made Valjean's face light up whenever he spent the day with her in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Sometimes that was still a lie, but Javert could not deny that it was reassuring to see Valjean happy again. And the petty places of his heart that would not let go of their secret jealousy were always satisfied when Valjean would invariably return for his company—or his bed.

“Valjean, I swear to you, if this is another invitation to one of those sordid plays on the boulevard du Crime—”

Javert fell silent. He read the letter once, twice. He frowned, then read it again, slowly, carefully. The sentences were convoluted; he did not want to make a mistake.

Finally he looked up, speechless at last, and fixed Valjean with a look that would have made a hardened cut-throat quake, although Valjean just looked at him with simple, helpless joy.

“What do you say?” Valjean asked.

“Valjean! That is—but no, that cannot be! Is this—”

Javert broke off, and Valjean stepped closer—close enough that Javert could feel the heat of his breath. 

“I tried to argue with her—on my behalf, you see, not on yours!” Valjean said. “You deserve all this, and more. But she—”

“She gave me your hut,” Javert said, so completely out of his depth that he still was not certain that he had read the letter right. “She used your money to buy this house, and she gave the house to you, and the hut to me? Valjean, I—”

Valjean was still smiling, although now, at last, Javert realized that the hesitation had returned.

“You need not keep it, of course,” Valjean murmured. “If you would rather rent it out, or sell it, or—”

“Sell it! Sell it, ha! So that some ruffian can come to live here with you?”

In his agitation, Javert tugged on his whiskers again, pacing back and forth as he looked down at the letter, then up at the hut, and then at the house.

“So you will live in the house, and I in the hut, and we shall see each other as often as we might?” he muttered at last. It still did not make sense.

Valjean's hand on his arm halted him.

“I do not want the house,” Valjean said. “It was always hers. I... what need do I have for rooms I cannot fill? But—but perhaps, if you want to share your hut, at times...”

When Javert remained speechless, Valjean swallowed and continued.

“I will keep the apartment in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, of course. I can—”

“Nonsense, Valjean,” Javert said forcefully as he realized just what Valjean was thinking. Would the man apologize for his presence on the grounds his own daughter had bought him as a gift? “I am overwhelmed. I do not think I can accept this. I know I do not deserve this.”

And of course he did not deserve this. How could he? He had never even told her about her mother. It would not be right to accept such a gift in such circumstances.

“I will make a deal with you, Jean Valjean. Yes, a deal. Listen to me. I will have to talk to her. I will have to talk to her about her mother, and my own part in her death. You must see that I have no choice? If she will still offer this gift—then I shall accept. For no other reason than that I want to be close to you. God knows you need someone to make sure you do not fall into any caves or tunnels again, or get yourself kidnapped. What say you, Valjean?”

In truth, the thought still made Javert queasy. He had no need of charity, and a gift like that, which could not ever be repaid...

And yet. If such a gift could be used to trick Valjean in accepting gifts and gratitude—more importantly, into accepting the comfort he had earned through his hard work—then yes, Javert was content to play his own part.

“If you tell her about Fantine,” Valjean murmured, his face suddenly pale, “then... then she will know about me as well. Then she will know what I am, how I—oh, Javert, I could not bear it!”

“She came after you!” Javert grasped Valjean's shoulder.

Once more he pulled Valjean close—that foolish, frustrating man!—and tried to resist the urge to kiss him the way he now knew how to do, hungrily and demanding until Valjean would soften and allow himself to enjoy their closeness. But not yet. Not yet.

“She came after you because she loves you. She walked down into those tunnels with Henry and his men, fearless and determined to retrieve you from the hell you had been dragged into. You saved her! For God's sake, Valjean, you saved her as you saved the boy, as you tried to save her mother—as you saved me!” Javert's voice nearly broke at the following sentence. “How can you even for a moment believe that she would not love you if she knew, when I love you, and I have seen the worst of what was done to you?”

Valjean was trembling a little. The wind had picked up, and Javert could hear it rustle in the bushes surrounding them. The moon shone on, and in its light, he thought he saw a gleam in Valjean's eyes.

“I learned to pray, down there,” Javert said quietly at last, and his hand came up to cup Valjean's cheek. “I learned to pray for you. And to think that I would pray there, begging to be allowed to see you smile in this garden once more! Here I am, and I made you weep instead.”

“Javert, you didn't...”

For a moment, it seemed that Valjean would turn his face away. Then, instead, his hand rose to cover Javert's, and he leaned into the caress.

All of a sudden, Javert realized that he had gone about it all wrong. He should have waited with his demand until the pardon was obtained. He should have taken that as proof that Cosette had nothing to fear if Valjean's status were revealed. It would have been difficult then—but he would have found a way to make Valjean see reason.

He sighed in frustration at his own inability to do things right. Perhaps they were eternally cursed to make the wrong choices. And yet, here they were, alive and free, standing beneath the rising moon in a garden that smelled of flowers and the night wind, Valjean's hair bright in the starlight.

Javert drew him into a kiss. He did not release Valjean until their frustration had dissolved into sweetness, and that in turn turned into longing. Valjean's lips were warm against his own, swollen and flushed from growing hunger. Slowly, Javert drew a finger down to where the knot of Valjean's cravat rested, tempting him with the ease with which he could pull it apart to bare sensitive skin.

“Valjean,” he murmured at last. “I did not want to tell you until it was in my hand. But I—Pontmercy and I, I should say—we are about to obtain a pardon for you.”

Valjean drew back at once, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed with shock. Javert kept his hand curved around his neck as he continued.

“It is as good as done. Pontmercy says it is mere formalities now. I did not want to give you hope until I held it in my hand—but you will have your pardon in two weeks' time. I promise. And whatever it is, Valjean, whatever monster from the past tries to rear its head, they will have no power over you. And then—you see what that means, don't you? Cosette will be safe. Your past will be no danger to her. Pontmercy already knows, after all. And so she can have the truth then, of you, of what you did for her mother and for her. She will only love you more. And I, I shall be truthful as well. And whatever comes after that—for all of us, Jean Valjean—it will be built on love and truth.”

And goodness, he added silently. He watched as the eyes of the man he had come to love filled with tears once more in the light of the moon—and then, at long last, there appeared the smile he had so longed for. He had sought to kiss Valjean here, in the light of the sun, with a smile on his face. Instead, what he had received was the moonlight and a smile that was yet made bitter by tears.

But then Valjean drew him into an embrace again, too overcome to speak, and Javert felt the wetness of his tears against his cheek. 

Once again Valjean was weeping in his garden. But this time he was not alone. And that, in the end, was perhaps more than either of them had ever dared to dream of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank Miss M enough for all the handholding and encouragement and word wars, and of course also betaing this entire beast of a story which one year ago I promised would take around 60k to tell. You are the absolute best, thanks for all the work you've put into this! <333
> 
> Thank you also to everyone who stuck with this story as it kept growing, you guys are the best. <3 And I've definitely learned my lessons about what amount of words I'm going to need to tell x plot points, hah.
> 
> I've also gathered a few of the historic pictures that made me interested in the Catacombs as the setting for an adventure plot. [Here](http://esteliel.tumblr.com/post/139299971238/so-now-that-the-casefic-is-coming-to-an-end-here) are postcards that show the Catacombs tourism that was already a thing in the 19th century (they actually grew so popular that the Catacombs got closed to the public again in 1833). Furthermore, [here](http://esteliel.tumblr.com/post/139300592613/the-underground-mushroom-farming-of-champignons-de) are illustrations and photos of the underground mushroom farms that sprung up in Paris and the surrounding areas in the 19th century.


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